THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


[From  the  Household  Edition  of  Bayard  Taylor's  Works,  published  by 
Houghton,  Mifflin  &•  Co.\ 


THE 


POETS  AND  POETRY 


CHESTER    COUNTY, 


PENNSYLVANIA. 


COLLECTED   AND   EDITED   BY 

GEORGE    JOHNSTON, 

EDITOR  OF  "THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  CECIL  COUNTY,  MARYLAND; 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  HISTORY  OF  CECIL  COUNTY  ;"  CORRESPONDING 

MEMBER  OF  THE  PENNSYLVANIA,  DELAWARE,  MARYLAND, 

AND  WISCONSIN  HISTORICAL  SOCIETIES,  ETC. 


Poetry  is  itself  a  thing  of  God  ; 

He  made  His  prophets  poets  ;  and  the  more 

We  feel  of  poesie  do  we  become 

Like  God  in  love  and  power. 

BAILEY'S  FESTUS. 


PRINTED    BY 

J.    B.    LIPPINCOTT    COMPANY, 

PHILADELPHIA. 
1890. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


THIS  book  is  published  and  sold  by  subscription  b'y 
George  Johnston,  of  Elkton,  Md.,  and  Francis  C.  Pyle, 
of  Leonard,  Chester  County,  Pa.,  who  have  formed  a 
limited  partnership  for  that  purpose,  which  will  ter 
minate  in  September,  1891,  by  the  terms  of  which 
Mr.  Pyle  will  have  control  of  the  canvass,  sale,  and 
delivery  of  the  book  and  all  matters  pertaining  thereto. 
Price  in  plain  cloth,  $1.50;  full  gilt,  $1.85;  when 
ordered  by  mail,  15  cents  additional  must  be  sent  for 
postage. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1889,  by 

GEORGE  JOHNSTON, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington,  D.C. 


PREFACE. 


IN  presenting  this  book  to  the  public,  the  editor 
wishes  to  say  that  he  has  been  actuated  by  a  desire  to 
make  it  just  what  its  name  indicates,  and  to  give  every 
native- and  resident  poet  of  Chester  County  who  has 
written  any  poetry  worthy  of  preservation  a  place  in 
its  pages,  and  as  comprehensive  a  biographical  sketch 
as  the  available  data  and  limited  size  of  the  book 
would  permit ;  so  that  it  would  be  of  historical  as  well 
as  of  literary  value.  Great  care  has  been  taken  in 
selecting  the  poems  to  avoid  the  use  of  all  sectarian  or 
other  objectionable  matter,  and  it  is  believed  there  is 
nothing  in  it  to  injure  the  morals  of  the  young  or 
offend  the  most  conscientious  Christian.  Because  of 
the  excessive  modesty  of  some  living  writers,  and  the 
indifference  of  the  friends  of  some  who  are  dead,  it 
was  impossible  in  a  few  cases  to  obtain  selections  suit 
able  for  publication.  In  order  to  remedy  this  dis 
crepancy  between  the  title  and  the  contents,  the  chapter 
on  other  poets  has  been  added.  Owing  to  the  com 
prehensiveness  of  the  title,  and,  in  a  few  cases,  to  the 
scarcity  of  better  material,  a  few  poems  have  been  in 
serted  which  otherwise  would  have  been  excluded.  Of 
the  manner  in  which  the  work  has  been  done,  the  reader 
must  judge  for  himself;  the  editor  can  only  say  that 
he  has  striven  to  make  the  best  and  most  judicious  selec 
tions  from  available  material,  and  at  the  same  time  to 
rescue  from  oblivion  the  names  of  the  humble,  rather 
than  to  exalt  those  of  acknowledged  ability. 

For  the  reasons  above  stated  it  is  apparent  that  the 
reader  should  not  expect  to  find  a  brilliant  cluster  of 
poetical  gems,  but  rather,  if  you  will  pardon  the  ex 
pression,  a  garland  of  flowers  in  which  the  simpier's 
joy  and  modest  violet  have  been  entwined  with  the 
trumpet-flower  and  fragrant  mignonette. 

G.  J. 

Ei.KTON,  MD.,  February  18,  1890. 


759752 


CONTENTS. 


Annie  Alexander.     Biography    .    .    .  , 17 

The  Haunted  House 17 

Edwin  Atlee  Barber.     Biography 18 

The  Guide's  Story 18 

Contentment 21 

Inspiration 22 

Mrs.  Mary  D.  R.  Boyd.     Biography 23 

Catharine  S.  Boyd.     Biography 23 

How  the  Family  Clock  went  on  "  A  Strike" 24 

Life's  Discipline 25 

True  Greatness 26 

The  Voice  of  the  Brook 28 

A  Castle  in  the  Air 29 

The  Foolish  Quarrel 30 

The  News-Carrier 31 

There  is  Work  for  All 32 

Thomas  Ellwood  Brinton.     Biography 34 

Truth 34 

The  Birds  of  Passage 35 

Debby  E.  Cope.     Biography 36 

Caleb  S.  Cope.     Biography 36 

Sea  of  Galilee 37 

Under  the  Shadow 38 

Pansies 40 

Slighted  Counsel 42 

To  a  Flushed  Partridge 43 

A  Short  Talk  with  the  Frogs  about, Geology 44 

7 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Rebecca  Conard.     Biography 47 

The  King's  Daughters 47 

Elizabeth  M.  Chandler.     Biography 48 

The  Brandywine 48 

Susanna  Dance.     Biography 51 

Angel  Whispers 51 

The  Dew-Drop 53 

The  Way-side  Tree 55 

Chandler  Darlington.     Biography 57 

Charles  Howard  Darlington.     Biography 57 

Fenelon  Darlington.     Biography      58 

Periodical  Weddings 58 

The  Forties 59 

The  Dead  Hope 61 

The  Angel  of  the  Tempest 62 

An  Invocation 63 

Lewis  Eisenbeis.     Biography 64 

The  Church  Fair 64 

A  Thanksgiving  Ode 68 

My  Mother's  Face 69 

James  Bowen  Everhart.     Biography 70 

The  Entertainment  at  Simon's  House 70 

Sconnelltown 71 

Thomas  Ellwood  Garrett.     Biography 76 

Disenthralled 76 

Howard  Worcester  Gilbert.     Biography     ." 78 

To  a  Skylark 79 

To  the  Trailing  Arbutus 80 

Hymn  at  the  Grave So 

Prelude  and  Liberty  Song 81 

William  S.  Graham.     Biography 83 

Bear  On 83 

Rejoice 84 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Rev.  Lewis  R.  Harley.     Biography 84 

Contemplation 85 

Moonlight  by  the  Sea 87 

Townsend  Haines.     Biography 89 

William  T.  Haines.     Biography 89 

Mary  Denny  Haines.     The  Twilight  Hour 90 

The  Mountain  Stream 91 

Bob  Fletcher 92 

A  Birthday  Tribute 93 

The  Dying  Year 94 

God's  Providence .      95 

Isabella  P.  Huston.     Biography 96 

The  White  Althaea  Flower 97 

My  Mother 99 

Tea-Roses 100 

Truth 101 

Helen  I.  Hodgson.     Biography 101 

Chester  Valley 102 

The  Dove 103 

The  Drifting  Years 104 

Wonderings 105 

Rachel  Hunt.     Biography 106 

Humble  Confidence ,    .    .  106 

John  Hickman.     Biography 107 

The  Poor 107 

Halliday  Jackson.     Biography 109 

The  Stormy  Petrel 109 

Claytonia  Virginica no 

Laura  A.  Johnson.     Biography in 

Speak  of  Jesus 1 12 

Henry  S.  Kent.     Biography 113 

Esther  Kent  (Smedley).     Biography 113 


I O  CONTENTS. 


Anne  F.  Kent  (Bradley).     Biography 114 

"  A  Diversity  of  Gifts,  but  One  Spirit" 114 

To  my  Wife,  etc 116 

Lines,  etc 117 

Stanzas,  etc 118 

My  Love  and  I 120 

After  the  Battle 121 

Bring  Flowers 123 

Alice  Gary 124 

Contrition 125 

Sweet  Agnes 127 

The  Last  Morning 128 

The  Aide's  Story 129 

Mordecai  Larkin.     Biography 132 

The  Works  of  God 133 

John  E.  Leonard  LL.D.     Biography 134 

Memory  and  Hope 135 

Song 135 

Weariness 136 

Charlton  T.  Lewis.     Biography 136 

Telemachus 137 

Susan  Lukens.     Biography 142 

The  Painter  of  Seville 142 

Rev.  John  M.  Lyons.     Biography 147 

The  Zephyr 148 

Old  Ocean 149 

Day's  Decline 150 

Waiting 151 

Lizzie  M    Marshall.     Biography 151 

My  Angel 152 

June — A  Fragment 153 

Thanksgiving 154 

Isaac  Martin.     Biography 155 

The  Wavy  Pane 155 

Ezra  Michener,  M.D.     Biography 156 


CONTENTS.  1 1 


PAGE 

Frances  Lavina  Michener.     Biography 157 

The  Car  of  Life 157 

May 159 

Captain  Charles  Mcllvaine.     Biography 160 

Groom  an'  Bride 161 

Spring  Fever 163 

The  Heated  Term 163 

Apple  Blossoms 165 

James  McClune,  LL.D.     Biography    -. 165 

The  Battle  of  Las  Navas 166 

Parting 167 

William  McCullough.     Biography 168 

Life's  Milestones .  168 

Mary  Ann  Moore.     Biography 170 

Who  is  thy  Friend  ? 170 

Elizabeth  Walton  Moore.     Biography 171 

Count  Zinzendorf 171 

Sara  Louisa  Oberholtzer.     Biography 174 

An  Interview  with  the  Spring  Wind 14 

A  Burial  Ode 175 

The  Forgotten  Birthday 176 

Samuel  M.  Osmond,  D.D.     Biography 177 

Unattainable ' 178 

Shelley 178 

George  W.  Pearce.     Biography 179 

David  C.  Broderick .  180 

Ann  B.  Phillips.     Biography 181 

Two  Visions .    .  181 

In  Memoriam 183 

Issachar  Price.     Biography 184 

The  Snow-Bird 184 

Eli  K.  Price.     Biography 185 

The  Good  Man's  Death  Hymn, 186 


12  CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Ann  Preston,  M.D.     Biography 187 

William  B.  Preston,  M.D.     Biography 187 

The  Ideal  is  the  Real 188 

Pennsylvania  Hall 189 

Now  is  the  Time  for  the  Baby  to  Wake 190 

Isaac  R.  Pennypacker.     Biography      191 

Gettysburg* 192 

Amelia  J.  Rowland.     Biography 196 

Here  and  There 197 

Now 197 

Life's  Shadows 198 

Abraham  Rakestraw.     Biography 199 

Mary  Rakestraw  (Jones).     Biography 199 

Eliza  Rakestraw  (Whitson).     Biography 199 

Spring 200 

Thoughts,  etc 201 

Sunny  Days  in  Winter 202 

Quaker  Meeting 203 

Thomas  Buchanan  Read.     Biography 205 

The  Closing  Scene 206 

The  Stranger  on  the  Sill 208 

Martha  B.  Ruth.     Biography 209 

A  Brighter  World  than  This 209 

Nature's  Music 210 

Slater  B.  Russell.     Biography 211 

Jasmin* 212 

Frank  H.  StaufTer.     Biography 213 

Watching  the  Dawn' 214 

To  the  Stars 214 

A  Name  that  was  not  Mine 215 

*Thi*  poem  is  from  "  Gettysburg  nnd  Other  Poems,"  by  Isaac  R.  Penny- 
packer,  published  by  Porter  &  Coate*,  Philadelphia,  1890. 


CONTENTS.  13 


PAGE 

Mary  E.  Schofield.     Biography 216 

Our  Bird 216 

The  Maiden  Lover 217 

Rev.  Matthias  Sheeleigh,  D.D.     Biography 2l8 

Luther-Statue  Unveiling 219 

Whitemarsh  Centennial 292 

Carving  a  Name 295 

I.  Milton  Smith.     Biography 220 

Summer  Time 221 

Eventide •  .    .    .  221 

Joel  Swayne.     Biography 222 

Benjamin  W.  Swayne.     Biography 222 

William  Marshall  Swayne.     Biography 223 

Edward  Swayne.     Biography 223 

The  Fall  of  Missolonghi 223 

Address  to  the  Stars 226 

Orison    . 228 

Val  Delicia 229 

The  Octoraro 231 

Mary  Eloisa  Thropp  (Cone).     Biography 233 

Amelia  Thropp.     Biography 234 

Catharine  Rose  Thropp  (Porter).     Biography 234 

The  Wild  Flowers  of  Valley  Forge 235 

Valley  Forge  Centennial  Poem 236 

Heavenward 241 

The  Dying  Drummer-Boy 242 

Christian  Workizer's  Steed 244 

Bayard  Taylor.     Biography 247 

Emma  Taylor  (Lamborn).     Biography 248 

Bedouin  Song 249 

The  Song  of  the  Camp 250 

Hassan  to  his  Mare          252 

The  Way-side  Dream      253 

2 


14  CONTENTS. 


Remembrance 255 

Cheyenne  Mountain 256 

Mount  Edgecumbe 256 

J.  Williams  Thome.     Biography 257 

Nature  Prompting  to  Devotion 258 

Emmaline  Walton.     Biography 259 

Lines,  etc 260 

Vacant  Places 261 

Lillian  Weaver.     Biography 262 

A  Villanelle 263 

Trailing  Arbutus 264 

A  Ballade 264 

A  Leaf  from  Nature 265 

William  Whitehead.     Biography 265 

The  Sabbath  Bell 266 

In  Memoriam v 268 

Brinton  W.  Woodward.     Biography 269 

St.  Augustine 270 

In  Boyhood 271 

Chester  County 272 

Lavinia  P.  Yeatman.     Biography 273 

Spring 274 

Quaker  Meeting 275 

New-Year's  Eve 276 

Extract  from  "  Edith" 277 


OTHER  POETS.    . 

James  L.  Futhey 279 

Mrs.  S.  A.  Taylor 279 

Anne  J.  Christman 279 

Mrs.  E.  W.  Cutler 279 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

J.  O.  K.  Robarts 279 

Rev.  Samuel  Pancoast 279 

Decoration  Poem 280 

Marshall  Fell 284 

Funeral  Flowers 284 

John  Townsend 285 

Patrick  Henry 285 

Roger  H.  Kirk 286 

William  S.  Brinton 286 

John  Workizer 287 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  my  Wife 287 

William  E.  Baily 288 

Mrs.  Amanda  Pyle  Michener 288 

• 

John  Jackson 288 

Morning  Meditations 288 

George  W.  Roberts 289 

Mrs.  Annie  M.  Darlington 289 

Rev.  William  Newton,  D.D.  .    . 289 

Emma  Alice  Browne 290 

Measuring  the  Baby 291 


ANNIE   ALEXANDER. 


THIS  lady  is  the  daughter  of  John  H.  and  Sarah  (Woolens) 
Bye.  She  was  born  not  far  from  Oxford  in  1836,  and  educated 
at  the  public  schools  of  the  neighborhood  and  at  the  Mount 
Jordon  Seminary  of  Evan  Pugh,  near  Oxford.  In  1856  she 
married  Ellis  Alexander,  and  has  spent  all  her  married  life  ex 
cept  four  years  in  Chester  County.  For  the  last  sixteen  years  she 
has  occasionally  contributed  poems  to  the  Oxford  Press. 


THE   HAUNTED   HOUSE. 

ES,  yes,  the  house  is  haunted  still 

By  ghosts  of  days  of  yore ; 

And  silent  figures  wander  there, 

Through  each  familiar  door. 

At  every  turning  they  appear, 

As  by  some  magic  spell ; 
In  every  nook  and  corner,  too, 

Their  presence  seems  to  dwell. 

Not  robed  in  ghostly  garments, 

Like  restless  spirits  clad, 
But  clothed  like  living  mortals, 

With  features  bright  and  glad. 

There  are  dear  old  wrinkled  faces, 
Sweet  with  the  smiles  they  wear, 

Whose  loving  eyes  beam  tenderly 
Beneath  their  snowy  hair. 

And  happy  wives,  and  husbands  kind, 
And  children  fair  and  sweet, 

With  parents  guiding  carefully 
Their  little  wayward  feet. 

b  2*  17 


1 8  EDWIN  A.  BARBER. 


But  no  stranger  ear  can  hear  them, 

No  stranger  eye  can  see 
Those  phantoms  of  the  by-gone  times, 

As  they  appear  to  me. 

Though  many  changing  years  have  passed 

Since  in  the  flesh  we  met, 
Our  mem'ries  hold  communion  there 

And  haunt  the  old  house  yet. 


EDWIN   ATLEE   BARBER, 


THIS  author  is  the  son  of  William  E.  and  Ann  Eliza  (Town- 
send)  Barber.  He  was  born  in  Baltimore,  Md.,  August  13,  1857, 
and  was  educated  at  Williston  Seminary,  East  Hampton,  Mass., 
and  at  Lafayette  College,  Pa. ;  was  naturalist  on  the  United  States 
Geological  and  Geographical  Survey  in  charge  of  Dr.  F.  V.  Hay- 
den  in  1874-5.  He  has  also  been  Superintendent  of  the  West  Phila 
delphia  Post-Office,  and  Secretary  of  the  United  States  Civil  Ser 
vice  Examining  Board  for  the  Philadelphia  Post-Office.  February 
5,  1880,  he  married  Nellie  Louisa  Parker,  of  Philadelphia.  Mr. 
Barber  commenced  to  write  poetry  for  the  college  journals  at  the 
age  of  nineteen,  and  has  contributed  many  poems  to  the  West 
Chester  and  Philadelphia  newspapers,  and  has  published  many 
articles  in  the  American  Naturalist,  American  Antiquarian,  and 
other  scientific  journals.  At  one  time  he  was  associate  editor  of 
the  American  Antiquarian,  and  is  the  author  of  the  Genealogical 
Record  of  the  Atlee  Family. 


THE   GUIDE'S   STORY. 

TAWKIN'  'baout  fishin'   an'    huntin'   fur 

deer, — 
The  slickest  thing  'curred  last  December  two 

year; 

(Ye've  heerd  guides  a-blaowin'  an'  lyin'  like  fun, 
But  /never  dew,  as  ye' 11  'low  'fore  I'm  done.) 

"Wall,  I  tell  ye  what  happened  to  Jack  Braown  an' 

me : 
We  was  huntin'  that  season  on  Loon  Pond,  ye  see, 


EDWIN  A.  BARBER.  1 9 

An'  bein'  hard  pushed  fur  a  rashun  o'  game, 
A  hankerin'  fur  it  seemed  rayther  too  tame. 

"  I    don't    'zactly    knaow    jest    haow    long    we    was 

gone, 
But  we'd  biled  the  last  steak,  an'  we'd  chawed  the 

last  bone ; 

We  was  campin'  alongside  an  old  ranch  we  struck 
The  winter  afore,  where  I  shot  the  big  buck. 

"  Ye  knaow  up  this  way  in  the  Adirondacks 
The   lakes  all   freeze    over   'baout   Christmas,  an' 

tracks 

Of  deer  is  quite  plain  arter  light  squalls  of  snaow, 
An'  they  lay  thick  as  bees,  'most,  wharever  ye  gao. 

"  Wall,  we  follered  a  fresh  trail,  in  hopes  of  a  saddle 
(Fur'n  that  time  o'  year  th'ain't  no  water  to  paddle), 
An'  daown  on  the  ice,  Jack  jest  scooped   aout  a 

sink, 
An'  laid  on  his  stummick  to  suck  up  a  drink. 

"  The  minit  his  maouth  tetched  the  hole,  great  Sophiar  ! 
Ef  a  traout  didn't  jump  fur  his  nose,  I'm  a  liar; 
He  giv"  a  side  yank  an'  jerked  aout  on  the  snaow 
A  feller  es  weighed  twenty  ounces  ur  sao. 

"Jack  kep'  on  a-drinkin'  an'  yankin'  them  fish 
Till  enough  was   pulled  aout   fur  to  make  a  good 

dish. 

(I  ain't  giv'  to  lyin'  nur  blaowin',  I  say, 
So  ye  needn't  keep  grinnin'  an'  winkin'  that  way.) 

"  We  don't  hev'  much  riggin'  to  bother  us  here, 
A-spreadin'  the  table  an'  cheers  with  sich  keer, 
But  jest  squat  right  daown  an'  sail  in  fur  pot  luck, 
All  the  same  ef  it's  venison,  traout,  ur  a  duck. 

"  Wall,  of  all  the  tall  eatin'  es  ever  ye  seen, 
I  guess  we  did  most,  ur  my  name  ain't  Hank  Green  ; 
We  made   them   there   traout   kinder  look    mighty 

sick, 
Es  we  stretched  aourselves  aoutside  the  hull  batch, 

sao  slick. 


2O  EDWIN  A.  BARBER. 

"  'Baout  a  week  arter  that,  we  was  campin'  below, — 
Me  an'  Jack  an'  a  sportin'  lad, — 's  name  was  De 

Foe; 

We  sot  the  dogs  aout  on  the  track  of  a  deer, 
An'  planted  aourselves  by  the  haouse,  in  the  rear. 

"Purty  soon  we  could  hear  a  dashed  saour-daough 

clatter, 
An'  'fore  we  faound  aout  what  the  dewse  was  the 

matter 

A  deer  cum  a-past  us,  a-rippity-smash, 
An'  then  she  was  into  the  woods  with  a  crash. 

"But  the  haounds  they  kep'  arter,  old  Drive  on  the 

lead 

(An'  I  hain't  seen  another  could  ekal  his  breed), — 
A-snortin'  an'  hollerin'  's  ef  they  was  mad, 
An'   they  run  her  so  close  that  they  tuckered  her 

bad. 

"  We  follered  the  saounds  jest  es  tight  es  we  could, 
Till  arter  a  bit  we  got  cl'ar  o'  the  wood, 
An'  of  all  the  queer  sights  that  I  ever  behold, 
I  wouldn't  missed  that  one  fur  boat-loads  of  gold. 

"  The  dogs  was  a-jumpin'  an'  bayin'  to  bite, 
But   they  darsen't   run  in,  fur  the   critter  showed 

fight; 
'Twas  a  white  yearlin'  doe,  'baout  es  near  's  we  could 

see, 
With  her  head  p'inted  daown,  an'  her  rump  'gin  a  tree. 

"  Wall,  I  never  seen  nuthin'  es  did  me  more  good, 
Fur  aour  innerds  was  empty  an'  clam'rin'  for  food, 
An*  a  good  holler  stummick  won't  show  much  compas 
sion 
When  thar's  suthin'  araound  in  the  way  of  a  rashun. 

"I  hev'  often  heerd  say  a  white  doe  was  bad  luck, 
But  a  keen  appetite  '11  give  men  lots  o'  pluck, 
Sao   withaout   no   compunctions  we   aimed  at   her 

flanks, 
An'  shot  all  aour  ca'tridges, — mought  's  well  been 

blanks ! 


EDWIN  A.  BARBER.  21 

"  S'help  me  Davy,  that  deer  stood  es  still  es  a  stun, 
While  we  all  blazed  away  till  aour  bullits  was  done, 
An'  then,  I'll  be  blowed,  ef  she  didn't  turn  'round 
An'  walk  slowly  off,  'thaout  a  scratch  ur  a  saound. 

"Then  I  sez,  sez  I,  'Jack,  we're  euchred,  by  gum, 
We  mought  es  well  track  it  a  bee-line  fur  hum, 
Fur  ye  can't  kill  the  devil,  sao  what  be  the  use 
Of  wastin'  your  powder?     That  doe's  cooked  aour 
goose !' 

"  Wall,  I  don't  knaow  es  ever  I  seen  her  ag'in, 
But  what  I  hev'  told  ye  is  jest  true  es  sin ; 
Ef  ye  daon't  b'lieve  my  story,  why  jest  ask  Jack 

Braown, 
He'll  tell  ye  the  same,  an'  /never  let  daown." 


CONTENTMENT. 

HERE'S  a  tiny  rill  in  a  shady  grove 

That  ripples  the  whole  day  long, 
And  the  whip-poor-will  and  the  turtle-dove 

Go  thither  to  hear  its  song. 
The  trees  above,  in  a  graceful  arch, 

Bend  low  their  sheltering  arms, — 
The  kingly  oak  and  the  lissome  larch 

Respond  to  its  guileless  charms. 

There  came  a  gentle  voice  one  morn 

Up  from  the  crystal  stream, — 
Or  was  it  an  idle  fancy,  borne 

On  the  wings  of  a  fitful  dream  ? 
It  seemed  to  say,  "  In  my  mossy  bed 

I'm  troubled  by  no  sad  thought, 
For  many  a  word  were  best  unsaid, 

And  many  a  deed  unwrought. 

"  I  cheerily  sing  the  same  glad  song, 
Through  forest  and  o'er  the  lea, 

And  look  not  back,  as  I  glide  along 
To  my  goal,  the  distant  sea." 


22  EDWIN  A.  BARBER. 

I  tarried  awhile,  but  all  was  still 
Save  the  whispering  of  the  trees, 

And  I  wondered,  "  was  it  the  singing  rill, 
Or  a  voice  in  the  passing  breeze  !" 


INSPIRATION. 

SCULPTOR  fashioned  a  human  face 

Out  of  a  block  of  stone, 
And  made  it  a  thing  of  such  wondrous  grace 

That  he  worshiped  it,  and  with  a  moan 

He  prayed  that  it  might  live ; 
And  men  by  thousands  sang  his  praise 
And  crowned  him  "master"  in  their  lays, 
Or  kissed  the  soil  his  feet  did  tread, 
And  heaped  high  honors  on  his  head, 
With  all  that  fame  could  give. 

An  artist  painted  a  robin's  nest, 

Alive  with  its  half-fledged  brood, 
And  hung  the  canvas  towards  the  West, 
Beneath  the  home-tree,  in  the  wood, 

All  hidden  the  leaves  among ; 
And  the  painting  was  so  natural, 
As  the  slanting  sun  shone  on  .the  wall, 
That  the  mother,  coming  home  at  eve 
(The  picture  did  so  much  deceive), 
Flew  to  it  to  feed  her  young. 

A  poet  sang,  in  words  sublime, 

A  song  of  such  perfect  love, 
That  his  spirit,  reaching  beyond  all  time, 

Was  borne  from  earth  to  realms  above 

On  the  wings  of  his  blissful  lay  ; 
And  a  dying  soul  that  heard  the  strain, 
Thinking  it  song  of  Heavenly  train, 
Did  find  such  joy  and  trusting  peace, 
That,  when  from  earth  it  found  release, 
To  heaven  it  took  its  way. 


THE    BOYDS.  23 


THE  BOYDS. 

(MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER.) 
MRS.  MARY  D.  R.  BOYD. 

THE  subject  of  this  sketch  was  born  in  Philadelphia  in  1809. 
She  is  the  daughter  of  William  McCorkle,  for  many  years  editor 
of  the  Freeman's  Journal  of  Philadelphia,  who  was  born  in 
Wilmington,  Del.,  on  the  4th  of  July,  1776,  and  whose  an 
cestors  belonged  to  the  clan  of  the  MacTorqhuil  Dhu,  in  the 
Highlands  of  Scotland.  Mrs.  Boyd  was  fond  of  books  from 
her  earliest  recollection,  and  in  childhood  became  acquainted 
with  the  classic  authors  in  her  father's  library;  and  thus  laid  the 
foundation  upon  which  her  successful  literary  career  was  estab 
lished.  For  awhile  she  attended  the  best  schools  in  Wilmington, 
but  the  death  of  her  father  and  the  removal  of  the  family  to 
Philadelphia  deprived  her  of  this  advantage,-  and  she  was  obliged 
to  continue  her  studies  without  the  aid  of  a  teacher,  which  she 
did  so  successfully  that  she  acquired  a  knowledge  of  polite  litera 
ture  and  several  ancient  and  modern  languages.  She  began  to 
write  poetry  at  a  very  early  age,  and  some  of  her  poems  were 
published  when  she  was  only  twelve  years  old.  In  1832  she 
engaged  in  teaching  in  the  Mantua  Female  Academy,  Chester 
County,  under  the  direction  of  the  Rev.  James  Latta,  pastor  of 
Upper  Octoraro  Presbyterian  Church,  and  remained  there  three 
years.  In  1835  sne  married  Joseph  C.  Boyd,  a  great-grandson 
of  Rev.  Adam  Boyd,  the  first  pastor  of  Upper  Octoraro  Church. 
During  the  last  twenty  years  Mrs.  Boyd  has  contributed  much  to 
Arthur's  Home  Magazine,  the  juvenile  papers  of  the  American 
Sunday-School  Union,  and  those  of  the  Presbyterian  Board  of 
Publication,  besides  writing  a  large  number  of  books  for  youthful 
readers. 


CATHARINE   S.  BOYD. 

CATHARINE  S.  BOYD,  daughter  of  Joseph  C.  and  Mary  D.  R. 
Boyd,  was  born  at  the  homestead  farm,  near  upper  Octoraro  Church, 
which  has  been  in  possession  of  the  Boyd  family  for  four  genera 
tions.  She  had  the  usual  common  school  education,  but  had 
learned  to  read  at  home  before  attending  school.  Her  taste  for 
literature  was  early  developed,  being  inherited  from  both  parents; 
her  father  having  also  an  aptitude  for  writing  poetry.  When  six 
years  of  age  she  filled  a  small  blank-book  with  pen-and-ink  draw 
ings,  under  each  of  which  she  gave  in  printed  letters  a  short  descrip 
tion  of  the  picture.  At  the  age  of  twelve  she  wrote  creditable 
poems.  Of  late  years  she  has  been  a  contributor  to  the  St.  Nich 
olas,  Our  Monthly,  Women's  Work  for  Women,  and  very  largely 
for  the  juvenile  papers  of  the  Presbyterian  Board  of  Publication. 
Both  mother  and  daughter,  like  their  ancestors  for  many  genera 
tions,  are  members  of  the  Presbyterian  Church. 


24  MARY  D.  R.  BOYD. 


MARY   D.  R.  BOYD. 

HOW   THE  FAMILY   CLOCK  WENT  ON   "A 
STRIKE." 

T  stood  on  the  stairs  in  the  wide  oaken  hall, 

This  faithful  old  family  clock ; 
Had  a  face  and  three  hands  in  a  case  very  tall, 
With  a  tongue  that  said  only  "  tic-toe." 

But  once  on  a  time — 'twas  the  dead  of  the  night, 

When  folks  were  all  soundly  asleep — 
A  discussion  arose  on  a  question  of  right, 

And  they  muttered  not  loudly  but  deep. 

Mr.  Pendulum  said  that  he  really  must  speak 

Of  his  life  like  a  mole  underground, 
Without  air  or  light,  only  once  in  the  week, 

When  his  neighbors,  the  clock-weights,  were  wound. 

He   found    fault   with    them,    too — how   contrariwise 
bent, 

Those  dull  pokes  hung  unsocial  all  day ; 
And  when  gayly  swinging  across  lines  he  went, 

They  dropped  down  the  opposite  way. 

He  thought  all  must  see  he  had  cause  for  complaint, 
No  one  else  such  a  grievance  could  tell ; 

"Oh,  shut  up!"   cried  the  Hammer;  "I  often  feel 

faint 
With  my  efforts  to  strike  that  great  bell." 

"  If  only  some  one,"  said  poor  Pen,  "  had  the  skill 

To  count  all  the  beats  we  must  go." 
Then    the   pert    little   Second-Hand   spoke   up:     "I 
will ; 

I'm  quick  at  the  figures,  you  know." 

She  counted  an  hour,  day,  week,  month,  and  year — 

A  lifetime.     What  dreadful  array 
Of  units  there  were  !     The  clock  cried,  "  Oh,  dear  !" 

And  held  up  her  hands  in  dismay. 


MARY  D.  R.  BOYD.  2 5 


"Let  us  strike,"  said  they  all — not  the  loud,  cheery 
ring 

That  made  music  throughout  the  old  hall, 
But  such  "strikes"  as  famine  and  misery  bring 

To  those  who  are  slaves  to  their  thrall. 

So  for  three  tedious  hours  the  clock  had  a  rest, 

None  moved  to  obey  her  commands ; 
But  her  shame  and  disgrace  she  humbly  confessed 

By  covering  her  face  with  her  hands. 

Yet  when  the   moon   shone   through  the  ivy-draped 
pane, 

A  soft  touch  on  the  pendulum  laid 
Set  each  sluggish  part  in  swift  motion  again, 

And  a  voice  full  of  melody  said, — 

"You  have  only  one  thing  to  do  at  a  time, 
You,  too,  mortal,  bowed  down  with  care ; 

For  One  walks  beside  you  (the  thought  is  sublime), 
Who  will  help  you  your  burdens  to  bear." 

The  farmer  came  down  at  the  peep  of  the  day, 

His  step  was  elastic  and  quick ; 

"  What !  three  hours  behind  time  !"  they  all  heard  him 
say; 

"  The  old  clock  has  been  playing  a  trick." 

But  the  mystery  is,  whose  touch  broke  the  spell 

Of  silence  and  indolence,  too  ? 
Whose  magical  voice  such  brave  lessons  could  tell  ? 

I  never  can  guess  it — can  you  ? 


LIFE'S   DISCIPLINE. 

SUBTLE  fragrance  dwells  this  leaf  within  ; 
How  may  I  best  its  hidden  sweetness  win  ? 

Crush  thou  the  leaf,  and  soon  the  ambient  air 
Shall  waft  to  thee  its  odors  rich  and  rare. 


26  MARY  D.  R.  BOYD. 


Beneath  this  rugged  stone  a  jewel  lies ; 

I  fain  would  take  for  mine  the  glittering  prize. 

Strike  with  the  hammer ;  cut  with  sharpest  steel, 
Thy  labors  shall  the  priceless  gem  reveal. 

From  smitten  rock  the  crystal  fountain  flows ; 
Gold  in  the  furnace  tried  more  brightly  glows. 

The  olive  must  be  bruised  to  yield  its  oil ; 

The  wheat  is  ground  for  food  with  care  and  toil. 

Grapes  first  are  pressed  ere  flows  the  ruby  wine  ; 
These  types  portray,  oh,  friend,  thy  life  and  mine. 

We  read  between  the  lines,  and  see  how  grief 
Brings  out  our  graces,  like  the  broken  leaf. 

As  gold  in  crucibles  refined,  the  heart 
Is  purified  by  pain  and  bitter  smart. 

God's  hammer-blows  strike  hard,  but  lo  !  a  gem 
Shines  in  thy  crown — thy  royal  diadem. 


TRUE   GREATNESS. 

WONDER,  as  I  read  the  classic  tales  of  old, 
When  might   made  right,  and  valor  was  of 

more  esteem  than  gold, 
Whether  deeds  of  lofty  emprise  and  hearts  of 

matchless  worth, 

True  men  and  noble  women,  have  passed  away  from 
earth  ? 

They  tell  us  of  Thermopylae,  and  its  brave  three  hun 
dred  bound 

To  conquer  or  to  perish  on  the  straitened  battle-ground  ; 

With  their  lion-hearted  leader  they  waged  the  unequal 
strife, 

For  home  and  household  treasures  that  were  dearer  far 
than  life. 


MARY  D.  R.  BOYD. 


But  in  yonder  fireless  garret  I  see  a  crouching  form, 
Armed  with  a  slender  needle  to   fight    life's  battle- 
storm  ; 

Her  feeble  arm  she  thrusts  Want's  open  door  to  bar, 
And  bravely  keeps  gaunt  Famine  with  all  its  woes  afar. 

There  is  a  myth  that  in  Rome's  forum  a  gulf  once 

opened  wide, 
Nor  closed  again,  though  glutted  with  gems  of  kingly 

pride, 

Till  Curtius  on  his  charger,  in  knightly  courage  bold, 
Leaped  fearless  in,  proclaiming  life  more  precious  far 

than  gold. 

But  martyr  men  and  women  take  up  the  tasks  of  life, 
Giving  themselves  for  hostage,  not  shrinking  from  the 

strife ; 

In  daily  meek  submission,  in  patient  trust  they  wait, 
Bearing   their   burdens   nobly,  not   rushing  on   their 

fate. 

They  may  sing  of  Spartan  heroes,  of  battles  fought  and 

won; 

The  vanquished  walls  of  Troy,  Salamis,  Marathon  ; 
Or  the  bloody  fields  of  Lodi,  Marengo,  Austerlitz ; 
But  there  are  triumphs  greater  than  victories  like 

these. 

For  he  who  rules  his  spirit,  who  curbs  his  lawless 
tongue, 

Though  all  uncrowned  with  laurel,  by  poet's  voice 
unsung, 

Hath  conquered  Self,  that  tyrant,  whose  giant  arms 
have  bound 

More  captives  in  his  fetters  than  moated  keeps  sur 
round. 

So,  whenever  I  read  in  the  classic  tales  of  old, 

How  might  made  right,  and  valor  was  of  more  esteem 

than  gold, 
I  know  that  deeds  of  emprise  and  hearts  of  matchless 

worth, 
True  men  and  noble  women,  still  live  upon  the  earth. 


28  MARY  D.  R.  BOYD. 


THE   VOICE   OF  THE   BROOK. 

HAT  is  that  the  brook  is  saying, 

Dancing  merrily  along, 
Through  the  woods  and  through  the  meadows, 

Full  of  laughter  and  of  song  ? 

"  We  twin  rivulets  together 
Ventured  forth  the  world  to  see ; 

One  sought  deeds  of  lofty  emprise ; 
Lowly  acts  were  left  to  me. 

"I  refreshed  the  ferns  and  mosses, 
Cherished  seeds  of  blossoms  sweet, 

Till  they  grew  and  wove  a  curtain, 
Sheltering  me  from  summer's  heat. 

"Then,  when  failed  the  dew  and  rain-drops, 

And  my  fellow-stream  was  dry, 
Tinkling  o'er  the  shiny  pebbles, 

I  ran  softly  singing  by. 

"  Came  the  thrush  and  gay  wood-robin, 

From  my  coolest  depths  to  sip ; 
And  the  way-worn,  weary  pilgrim 

There  bathed  brow  and  parched  lip. 

"  Then  with  ringing  laughs  the  children 

Found  me  out  in  my  retreat ; 
Chased  the  bright-hued  water-spiders, 

Wading  in  with  bare,  white  feet. 

"  So,  though  ne'er  my  sparkling  waters 
Turned  a  mill-wheel,  winged  a  train, 

Or  joined  force  with  mighty  rivers, 
Speeding  ships  across  the  main, 

"Yet  I've  filled  my  humble  station, 
Nor  with  vain  desires  am  vexed  ; 
Leaving  to  the  world  this  precept : 

'Do   THE    DUTY   THAT    COMES    NEXT.'  " 


MARY  D.  R.  BOYD.  2Q 


A   CASTLE   IN   THE   AIR. 

WAS  built  in  a  notch  of  the  old  apple  tree — 

This  wonderful  castle  in  air ; 
Where  the  humming-bird  came,  and  the  wan 
dering  bee, 

The  pink  and  white  blossoms  to  share. 

Two   pretty  brown   birdies,  their  wings  flecked  with 

white, 

Had  fashioned  this  beautiful  nest ; 
They   chattered,   they  sang,  and   then   took  a  long 

flight, 
Of  building  materials  in  quest. 

No  hands  had  these  workers,  nor  ever  a  tool, 

Yet  built  walls,  and  plastered  them  well ; 
'  For  bricks  they  brought  twigs,  laid  exactly  by  rule, 
And  clay  from  the  brook  in  the  dell. 

Then,  when  all  was  finished,  and  hollowed  out  fair, 

And  lined  with  soft  mosses  and  hay, 
The  birds  carolled  sweetly — the  happiest  pair 

To  be  found  in  the  orchard  that  day. 

Four  pearly- white  eggs,  in  the  tree-cradle  laid, 

Kept  madam  at  home  on  her  nest ; 
"  "Twill  be  ever  so  nice  after  working,"  she  said, 

"  To  sit  down  and  have  a  good  rest." 

Ah  !  well  the  sly  rogue  knew  her  brave  little  knight 
Would  be  faithful  whatever  might  come  ; 

He  had  vowed  to  keep  always  his  castle  in  sight, 
And  share  with  his  mate  his  last  crumb. 

He  even  proposed, — and  was  proud  of  it  too, — 

When  he  saw  she  was  wanting  a  treat, 
To  sit  on  the  nest,  while  delighted  she  flew 

In  search  of  some  dainty  to  eat. 

Naught  troubled  the  pair ;  not  a  whit  did  they  heed 

The  cares  that  must  come  by  and  by, 
With  four  hungry  nestlings  to  watch  and  to  feed, 

And  train  their  young  pinions  to  fly. 

3* 


3O  CATHARINE   S.    BOYD. 


The  pink  and  white  blossoms  breathed  balm  on  the  air ; 

The  earth  was  in  emerald  drest ; 
But  the  prettiest  sight  in  that  orchard  fair 

Was  the  building  of  the  nest. 


CATHARINE   S.  BOYD. 
THE  FOOLISH   QUARREL. 

ITHIN  the  farm-yard's  safe  retreat, 
Through  every  kind  of  weather, 

Two  ducks,  a  rooster,  and  a  hen 
All  lived  in  peace  together; 

But  one  sad  day  a  quarrel  rose 

And  friends  were  quickly  changed  to  foes  ; 

Though  none  could  tell  just  how  it  came, 

Somebody,  surely,  was  to  blame. 

The  cow  looked  out  as  if  to  see 
The  cause  of  so  much  chatter, 
And  seemed  to  say,  in  mild  surprise, 

"  I  wonder  what's  the  matter  !" 
The  pigeon,  cousin  to  the  dove, 
Would  counsel  all  to  live  in  love, 
And  paused  awhile  in  airy  flight, 
Dismayed  when  discord  met  her  sight. 

And  still  the  war  of  tongues  went  on, 

And  all  was  dire  confusion, 
When,  thinking  it  was  almost  time 

To  bring  it  to  conclusion, 
With  fiery  face  and  haughty  mien 
The  turkey  came  upon  the  scene : 
"  I  blush  with  shame,"  he  said,  "  to  see 
You  so  disposed  to  disagree ; 

"  The  cause  of  your  dispute  must  be 

Important,  I've  no  doubt ; 
I'd  settle  it  for  you,  my  friends, 

If  I  could  make  it  out." 


CATHARINE   S.    BOYD. 


The  battle  ceased,  and  in  the  pause 
They  tried  in  vain  to  find  its  cause ; 
It  really  was  so  very  small 
Not  one  remembered  it  at  all. 


THE    NEWS-CARRIER. 


OW  do  you  know?"     "  Who  told  you  so?' 

These  words  you  often  hear ; 
And  then  it  often  happens,  too, 

This  answer  meets  your  ear  : 
"A  little  bird  has  told  the  tale, 
And  far  it  spreads  o'er  hill  and  dale." 

Now  let  us  see  if  this  can  be. 

How  can  the  birds  find  out  so  well, 
And  give  the  news  to  all? 

Or,  if  they  know,  why  need  they  tell  ? 
And  which  among  the  feathered  tribe 
Must  we  to  keep  our  secrets  bribe? 

The  busy  crow  ?     As  all  well  know 
He  sometimes  breaks  the  laws ; 

We  shall  regret  it,  if  we  do, 

For  .he  will  give  us  cause  (caws). 

Though  slyest  of  the  feathered  tribe, 

The  crow  would  scorn  to  need  a  bribe. 

Not  robin  red  ;  he  holds  his  head 

With  such  an  honest  air, 
And  whistles  bravely  at  his  work, 

But  has  no  time  to  spare. 
"  I  mind  my  own  concerns,"  says  he ; 
"They're  most  important,  all  may  see." 

Nor  birdie  blue,  so  leal  and  true ; 

He  never  heeds  the  weather, 
But  in  the  latest  winter-days 

His  fellows  flock  together  ; 
And  then,  indeed,  glad  news  they  bring 
Of  early  buds  and  blossoming. 


32  CATHARINE   S.    BOYD. 

Might  not  each  one  beneath  the  sun 

Of  all  the  race  reply, 
If  questioned  who  should  wear  the  cap, 

"Oh,  no!  it  is  not  I?" 
For  there  are  none  who,  every  day, 
Are  busier  at  work  than  they. 

They  chatter,  too,  as  others  do  ; 

But  what  it  is  about 
The  wisest  sage  in  all  the  earth 

Might  puzzle  to  make  out. 
But  I'm  as  sure  as  I  can  be 
They  never  talk  of  you  or  me. 

We  hear  "  They  say,"— oh,  every  day, — 
Are  they  the  birds,  I  wonder, 

That  have  such  power  with  words  to  part 
The  dearest  friends  asunder  ? 

Or  must  we  search  the  wide  world  through 

To  bring  the  culprits  full  in  view  ? 

The  birds,  we  see,  though  wild  and  free, 
Have  something  else  to  do ; 

And,  reader,  don't  you  think  the  same 
Might  well  be  said  of  you? 

It  really  seems  to  be  a  shame 

That  they  should  always  bear  the  blame. 


THERE  IS  WORK  FOR  ALL. 

|AS  it  a  dream?     I  seemed  to  see  a  field  of 

bending  grain, 

That  ripe,  in  yellow  splendor  rolled  like  bil 
lows  o'er  the  plain ; 
And  when  the  morning  sunlight  threw  its  beams  of 

glory  there, 

Forth  came  the  laborers,  each  in  place,  the  harvest 
work  to  share. 

First  were  the  reapers,  then  by  some  the  golden  sheaves 

were  bound, 
And  other  hands  soon  gathered  these  ;  none  idle  could 

be  found, 


CATHARINE    S.    BOYD.  33 

For  there  was  nothing  lost  that  day  of  all  that  bounte 
ous  store 

Because  of  sloth,  or  that  some  tired  before  the  task  was 
o'er. 

But  all,  with  cheerful  spirit,  gave  their  utmost  strength 

and  skill, 
Or  where  these  lacked,  their  place  was  filled  by  patient, 

earnest  will ; 
Some,  to  refresh  the  weary  ones,  brought    food  and 

water  too ; 
The  service  in  itself  was  small,  yet  all  that  they  could  do. 

There  even  children  had  a  place,  and  in  the  Master's 

sight, 
Not  trifling  was  the  work  they  wrought,  with  hands  of 

slender  might 
That  gleaned  the  scattered  blades  of  grain  through  all 

the  sunny  hours, 
Though  one,  a  tiny,  prattling  one,  had  gathered  only 

flowers. 

And  when  the  evening  sunlight  threw  long  shadows  on 

the  sward, 
Each  who  had  borne  a  part  that  day  received  a  fit 

reward ; 
•  While  all  alike  rejoiced,  because  all  shared  the  labor 

done, 
The  welcome  night  brought  rest  at  last,  sweet  rest  for 

every  one. 

And  then  I  thought,  if  it  were  thus  in  God's  broad 
harvest-field, 

How  full  the  gathering  there  might  be,  the  rich  abun 
dant  yield ; 

For  over  all  the  hills  and  vales,  unfolding  to  the 
view, 

A  glorious  fruitage  ripens  fast,  and  "laborers  are 
few." 

'Tis  true  that  some  go  forth  at  morn,  nor  cease  when 

night  is  near, 
But  where  the  numbers  that  should  haste  the  fainting 

hearts  to  cheer? 


34  THOMAS    E.   BRINTON. 

Shall  servants  of  a  mighty  King  be  laggards  to  the  last, 
Until  the  grain  is  garnered,  and  the  harvest  time  is 
past? 

Or  any  say,  with  careless  speech,  "  I  have  no  work  to 

do?" 
Oh,   thoughtless  ones,   the  world  is  wide,  there  is  a 

place  for  you, 
And  in  our  Master's  field  to-day  some  work  for  every 

one — 
Work  for  the  willing  hands  to  do,  and  rest  when  toil 

is  done. 


THOMAS   ELLWOOD    BRINTON. 

THOMAS  ELLWOOD  BRINTON,  son  of  Joseph  and  Susan  Brinton, 
was  born  in  Birmingham  Township,  August  II,  1832,  and  died 
July  9,  1883.  His  early  education  was  obtained  at  Birmingham 
Public  School,  where  he  made  rapid  progress  and  developed  a 
strong  passion  for  literature.  He  learned  the  trade  of  bricklaying, 
serving  part  of  his  apprenticeship  with  Jacob  Harvey,  afterwards 
noted  as  a  teacher  and  superintendent  of  public  schools  of  Chester 
County,  and  became  an  efficient  and  skilful  workman.  Mr. 
Brinton  in  early  life  married  Rachel  Williams,  of  Westtown 
Township,  who  with  their  eight  children  survived  him.  He 
showed  great  aptness  and  ability  for  writing  and  sketching  in 
early  life,  and  was  the  author  of  many  fine  poems,  being  a  fre 
quent  contributor  to  the  Village  Record,  American  Republican,  and 
Oxford  Press t  the  latter  being  edited  by  his  brother,  H.  L.  Brinton. 


TRUTH. 

|REAT  truths  gain  entrance  as  by  intuition. 

The  lightning's  fiery  bolt  of  vivid  ray, 
Quickly  to   rend,  falls   not  with   more   pre 
cision — 

Rives  the  strong  mountain  oak,  or  rends  away 
The  builded  rampart  as  a  thing  of  clay. 
They  enter  to  the  mind  and  fill  their  mission 

For  nobler  efforts,  the  while  the  soul  will  sway; 
And  lo  !  'twill  seem. like  stately  tower  to  rise, 
Strength  at  the  base  and  beauty  in  the  skies. 


THOMAS   E.  BRINTON.  35 


THE   BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 

HEY  have  spread   their  wings  for  the  sunny 

clime, 

They  are  passing  away  in  the  autumn  time. 
They  have  called  their  tribes  for  the  distant 

flight ; 

And  away  from  the  land  of  frost  and  blight 
They  go,  while  the  silent  breath  of  flowers 
Is  passing  away  from  this  land  of  ours. 
Now  faintly  comes  back  their  parting  strain  ; 
They  are  fleeing  afar  with  the  autumn  train, 
The  gentle  winds,  and  sparkling  showers, 
And  the  golden  tints  of  the  drooping  flowers. 

They  are  leaving  the  nests  in  the  mountain  trees ; 
They  are  cradled  no  more  by  the  mountain  breeze. 
By  the  brooklet's  side  their  notes  are  still; 
They  sing  no  more  by  the  murm'ring  rill. 
From  the  quiet  brake,  from  the  wild  woodside, 
Up,  up  to  the  fields  of  air  they  glide. 
The  fledgling  young  are  cradled  no  more 
In  the  swinging  nest  by  the  wave-washed  shore ; 
They  are  sailing  on  wings  of  the  lightest  feather, 
Far  o'er  the  bleak  hills  and  woods  together. 
Their  silent  abode  in  the  shadowy  vale 
Is  filled  with  the  comfortless  snow  and  hail, 
And  the  nest  that  hangs  from  the  leafless  bough 
Is  swinging  deserted  and  tenantless  now. 

Thro'  the  dreary  months  we  may  call  in  vain 
For  the  echoing  notes  of  the  woodland  train ; 
The  blackbird's  song,  and  the  robin's  trill, 
Are  heard  no  more  on  the  northern  hill. 
'Til  the  cheerless  hours  of  autumn  are  told, 
And  winter  away  in  the  north  is  roll'd ; 
'Til  spring  comes  out  from  the  sunny  land, 
We  may  call  in  vain  for  the  minstrel  band ; 
They  have  spread  their  wings  for  the  distant  shore, 
And  their  songs  of  gladness  are  heard  no  more. 
They  have  hied  them  away  to  the  flow'ry  isles 
Where  the  light  of  summer  forever  smiles ; 
And  singing,  they  fly  the  bleak  hills  over, 
Away  from  the  fields  of  fading  clover. 


36  THE  COPES. 


THE    COPES. 


DEBBY  EVANS  COPE  and  Caleb  S.  Cope  are  cousins ;  for  that 
reason  their  biographical  sketches  have  been  placed  under  their 
family  name. 


DEBBY   E.   COPE. 

DEBBY  EVANS  COPE,  daughter  of  David  and  Deby  (Phillips) 
Cope,  was  born  in  East  Whiteland  Township,  in  the  heart  of  the 
beautiful  Chester  Valley,  March  14,  1833.  For  several  years  she 
has  been  an  approved  minister  of  the  Society  of  Orthodox 
Friends.  She  received  most  of  her  education  at  schools  taught 
by  Friends  and  finished  her  studies  at  Westtown  Boarding-School 
in  1850.  Her  early  life,  except  a  few  years  devoted  to  teaching 
school,  was  spent  with  her  parents,  but  for  the  last  nineteen  years 
she  has  lived  with  her  uncle,  Morris  Cope,  in  West  Marlborough 
Township.  She  wrote  poetry  at  eight  or  nine  years  of  age;  one 
of  her  first  poems  being  "  A  Love  Offering  to  Mother."  Her 
poems  are  generally  of  a  personal  character,  the  exercise  of  her 
gift  being  mostly  confined  to  occasions  wherein  her  family  and 
friends  are  concerned ;  though  some  of  her  poems  have  been 
published  in  The  Friend  and  other  periodicals. 


CALEB   S.  COPE. 

CALEB  SWAYNE  COPE,  son  of  Benjamin  and  Rest  (Swayne) 
Cope,  was  born  in  East  Bradford  Township,  November  27,  1818. 
He  received  his  education  at  Westtown  School  and  at  John  Bul 
lock's  Seminary  in  Wilmington,  Del.  Early  in  life  he  married 
Lydia,  daughter  of  Joseph  and  Abigail  Eldridge.  of  East  Goshen 
Township,  and  engaged  in  farming  upon  the  patrimonial  inheri 
tance  which  his  ancestors  acquired  when  it  was  covered  with  the 
primeval  forest,  and  upon  which  he  now  resides.  Much  of  his 
leisure  time  in  early  life  was  spent  in  the  study  of  chemistry  and 
geology,  in  the  pursuit  of  which  he  met  with  so  many  Latin  terms 
that  at  the  age  of  thirty-seven  he  began  the  study  of  the  Latin 
language.  He  was  elected  a  member  of  the  West  Chester  Philo 
sophical  Society  in  1880,  and  since  that  time  has  taken  an  active 
part  in  its  proceedings.  He  began  to  write  poetry  early  in  life, 
and  is  the  author  of  a  large  number  of  poems,  many  of  which 
have  been  published  during  the  last  thirty  years. 


DEBBY   E.   COPE. 


DEBBY   E.    COPE. 

SEA   OF  GALILEE. 

H,  placid  sea  of  Galilee, 

How  wondrous  is  thy  story ! 
They  walked  beside  thy  changing  tide, 

Who  knew  the  Lord  of  glory. 

A  sacred  barque,  o'er  waves  so  dark, 
Its  precious  freight  was  bearing ; 

'Mid  calm  repose  the  storm  arose, 
His  marvellous  power  declaring. 

Life's  lesson  taught,  when  Peter  sought 

(Who  was  a  man  of  favor) 
To  walk  the  wave,  with  spirit  brave, 

To  meet  his  Lord  and  Saviour. 

When  waves  were  high,  there  rose  the  cry 
From  soul  of  faith-tried  mortal ; 

No  hands  of  men  can  aid  him  then 
To  reach  the  ship's  safe  portal. 

In  sinking  fear  his  voice  rose  clear, — 
"  Save,  Master,  or  I  perish  !" 

Outstretched  the  arm  to  keep  from  harm 
The  soul  He  joyed  to  cherish. 

Our  barque  afloat,  each  tiny  boat 

Is  in  the  Master's  keeping  ; 
His  hand  can  save,  'mid  boisterous  wave, 

Although  we  deem  Him  sleeping. 

And  "  Peace  be  still"  is  yet  His  will 

To  souls  on  troubled  ocean  ; 
Doubt  not  his  power  in  danger's  hour, 

But  prove  the  soul's  devotion. 

Be  brave  and  true  life's  journey  thro', 
Resounds  from  shore  to  shore, 

"  Our  Father's"  hand,  on  sea  and  land, 
Can  safely  guide  us  o'er. 

4 


38  DEBBY  E.  COPE. 


UNDER  THE  SHADOW. 

OFT  the  moonlight  shadow  resteth 

Over  all, 
Stealing  where  the  early  twilight 

Wraps  its  pall, 

And  from  out  the  deep'ning  stillness 
Voices  call. 

Gentle,  low,  and  full  of  music, 

Now  they  rise 
From  the  grave  of  buried  treasures 

To  the  skies, 
Where  the  sound  of  sacred  anthem 

Never  dies. 

Memory  bears  a  precious  burden ; 

Rich  and  clear 
Fall  the  songs  of  by-gone  pleasure 

On  the  ear ; 
Loving  words  from  gentle  spirits 

Linger  near. 


These  have  passed,  and  darkness  falleth 

On  the  scene ! 
Change  and  death  with  leaden  footstep 

Come  between. 
Joys  have  vanished,  hopes  have  perished, 

As  a  dream. 

To  a  quiet  little  graveyard 

Am  I  led, 
Where  in  deep,  unbroken  slumber 

Rest  the  dead, 
Heeding  not  the  lonely  orphan's 

Silent  tread. 

Father,  mother, — tender  guardians, 

Good  and  true, — 
Know  you  not  your  sorrowing  children 

Mourn  for  you, 
Craving  still  the  prayers  and  blessings 

Once  they  knew? 


DEBBY  E.  COPE.  39 


Ye  have  passed  from  earthly  trial, 

Earthly  care, 
Silent  grief  and  dark  temptation, 

Chill  despair ; 
Murmuring  hearts  and  restless  spirits 

Are  not  there. 


Sick  and  suffering,  faint  and  weary, 

Now  we  come, 
Poor  in  spirit — pressing  forward 

Thro'  the  gloom, 
Yearning  for  a  gleam  of  sunshine 

From  your  home. 


Well  we  know  the  hand  of  mercy, 

Opened  wide, 
Drops  on  earth  its  blight  and  blessing 

Side  by  side ; 
In  the  furnace  of  affliction 

Souls  are  tried. 


If  thou  prove  us,  Heavenly  Father, 

Truest  friend, 
May  we  trust  in  every  sorrow 

Thou  dost  send ; 
Only  grant  us  strength  and  patience 

To  the  end. 


Having,  in  life's  weary  conflict, 

Prayed  to  die, 
Longing  for  the  changeless  glory 

Found  on  high, 
Angel  hands  seemed  outstretched  to  us 

From  the  sky. 

Now  in  hours  of  calmer  sorrow, 

Deep  and  still, 
Strive  we  most  for  resignation 

To  thy  will, 
Waiting  for  thy  voice  to  whisper, 

"Peace  be  still!" 


4O  DEBBY   E.  COPE. 


Were  it  sin,  O  Heavenly  Father, 

Thus  to  shrink 
From  the  cup  of  bitter  sorrow 

We  must  drink, 
When  we  feel  the  life-chain  broken 

Link  by  link, 

Wilt  thou  not  in  tender  mercy 

All  forgive? 
Teach  us  how  to  bear  our  sorrows, 

How  to  live? 
That  to  Thee  this  earnest  warfare 

Glory  give. 

Let  thy  greatest  benediction 

Patience  be ; 
Bear  it  to  thy  earth-bound  children, 

Even  me, 
That  we  wait  the  time  appointed 

To  be  free. 

Ask  me  not  the  needful  portion 

Thou  wilt  spare 
Of  the  purifying  trials, 

Pain  or  care ; 
Only  give  us  what  Thou  knowest 

We  can  bear. 


PANSIES. 

STOOD  beside  a  bed  of  bloom 
In  spring-time's  early  morn  ; 
The  song  of  bird,  and  breath  of  flower, 

On  balmy  air  was  borne ; 
While  "  face  of  earth,"  again  renewed, 
Told  not  of  cold  and  storm. 

My  thoughtful  gaze  met  smiling  eyes, 

Of  varied  shade  and  hue ; 
They  took  me  back  to  early  days, 

To  pleasant  paths  and  true ; 
And  faces  lifted  to  the  skies 

Woke  joys  and  Sorrows  too. 


DEBBY  E.  COPE.  4! 


Oh,  beauteous  flower,  whose  language  tells 

More  than  the  pen  can  say, 
What  depth  of  thought  thy  presence  sheds 

To  cheer  life's  toilsome  way  ! 
Though  weak  of  heart,  we  still  shall  know 

Strength  needful  for  the  day. 

Some  lovely  faces,  drooping  low, 
Are  raised  with  careful  touch  ; 

They  sweetly,  humbly  say  to  me, 
That,  when  we  feel  so  much, 

The  head  is  bowed  in  silent  prayer ; 
"  Our  Father" — heareth  such. 


Dear  eyes  of  loving  gratitude, 

So  tender,  true,  and  deep, 
Your  constancy  will  help  the  heart 

Its  earthly  faith  to  keep; 
Fro'm  us  you  never  are  estranged, 

And  death — is  only  sleep. 

And  while  you  live  you  "sing  His  praise" 

Whose  glory  shines  for  aye ; 
"The  Lord  rejoices  in  His  works," 

That  praise  him  day  by  day. 
Oh,  happy  hearts,  who  yield  Him  all, 

And  with  the  Psalmist  say, — 

"  My  meditation  shall  be  sweet, 

I  will  be  glad  in  Thee ; 
The  Heavens  are  Thine,  the  earth  is  Thine, 

Thy  way  is  in  the  sea. 
Bless,  oh,  my  soul,  the  Lord  of  life, 

Praise  Him  continually  !" 

He  holds  within  His  sovereign  hand 

The  blessing  and  the  blight; 
And  close  upon  the  shadows  fall 

The  beams  of  Heavenly  light, 
Some  messenger  of  mercy  sent 

To  make  our  pathway  bright. 


42  CALEB   S.  COPE. 


To  Him  all  aching  hearts  may  come, 
'Mid  trial,  grief,  and  care; 

And  when  life's  choicest  gifts  are  ours, 
He  hears  the  grateful  prayer 

That  rises  to  His  throne,  to  find, 
Celestial  Heart's-ease  there. 


CALEB    S.   COPE. 
SLIGHTED   COUNSEL. 

T  was  a  pleasant  summer  morn, 

The  clover  blooming  sweetly ; 
From  scorching  heat  the  dews  of  night 

Had  cooled  the  air  completely. 
A  lively  gale  amongst  the  trees 

The  western  winds  were  blowing, 
And  o'er  the  rolling  grassy  leas 

The  dappled  waves  were  flowing. 
The  golden  crops  of  ripening  grain, 

A  checkered  scene  before  me, 
The  thrush's  and  the  robin's  strain, 

Love's  wavelets  rippling  o'er  me. 
The  nimble  squirrels  hide-and-seek 

Were  playing  in  the  hedge-row, 
The  darting  swallows  catch-and-take 

Across  the  dewy  meadow. 
A  cautious  rabbit  crossed  the  brook, 

And  stopped  awhile  to  view  me, 
And  gave  a  sly  inquiring  look 

As  if  he  thought  he  knew  me. 
The  next  I  met  a  thievish  crow 

His  neighbors'  seed-corn  digging, 
Who  scarce  could  stay  to  say  good-day, — 

Out  poaching  for  a  living. 
But  last  of  all,  a  thoughtless  toad, 

Parental  care  evading, 
Who  on  the  dusty  public  road 

Was  out  a  promenading. 
"  Accept,"  I  cried,  "  most  noble  youth, 

This  caution  of  a  stranger, 


CALEB   S.   COPE.  43 


For  I  assure  you  of  a  truth 

You're  in  no  common  danger. 
The  crow  on  ample  wings  may  sail, 

The  rabbit  find  the  bushes, 
But  such  as  you  the  passing  wheel 

And  heavy  wain  oft  crushes." 
With  haughty  step  he  struck  the  ground, 

In  proud  saltatory  jerking, 
Nor  ever  stopped  to  look  around 

For  hidden  dangers  lurking. 
When  as  I  shortly  journeyed  back, 

The  bold  monsieur  was  lying 
Along  the  rut-indented  track, 

All  crippled,  bruised,  and  dying ; 
And  in  his  suffering,  seemed  to  say, — 

"  I  now  am  realizing 
The  fate  of  those  whose  foolish  way 

Good  counsel  is  despising." 


TO  A  FLUSHED  PARTRIDGE. 


HOU  lovely  bird  of  lowly  wing, 

Thou  hast  perchance  thy  sorrow, 
But  not  like  me,  these  harrowing 

Forebodings  of  to-morrow. 
Thy  present  want  is  all  thy  care, 

Thy  crop  thy  only  store  ; 
With  that  well  filled,  here  ends  thy  fear, 

No  longing  look  for  more. 
No  danger  near  to  urge  thy  flight, 

I  leave  thee  as  I  found  thee, 
Until  the  sweeping  cradle  swathes 

The  heavy  harvest  round  thee. 
When  passed  the  slowly  moving  wain, 

That  ends  the  reaper's  trouble, 
Thou  then  may  chatter,  hide,  or  glean 

Securely  in  the  stubble. 
The  one  that  stills  the  raven  brood, 

And  marks  the  falling  sparrow, 


44  CALEB   S.  COPE. 


Sends  with  each  day  thy  daily  food, 

But  sends  thee  no  to-morrow. 
No  dark  anticipated  care, 

Thy  weary  breast  to  cumber, 
No  fell  forebodings  of  despair, 

To  break  thy  peaceful  slumber. 
But  if  no  fear  of  future  ill 

Can  cloud  thy  narrow  vision, 
No  joys  of  hope  thy  bosom  swell, 

No  hopes  of  joys  elysian, 
Then,  fare  thee  well,  thou  happy  bird, 

We  are  distinct  by  nature, 
And  I'll  forego — nor  think  it  hard — 

The  present  for  the  future. 


A  SHORT  TALK  WITH  THE  FROGS  ABOUT 
GEOLOGY. 

H  !  ye  strange  amphibious  creatures, 
Joined  in  chorus  loud  and  long, 

Since  the  birth  of  vocal  music 

Have  your  fathers  sang  this  song  ? 
Was  there  then  this  fertile  valley, 

Watered  by  these  flowing  rills, 
Or  was  strong  Plutonic  action 

Heaving  up  these  heavy  hills? 
Did  the  mighty  Dinotherium 

Slumber  in  his  ancient  cave, 
Or  the  welden  Cetiosaurus, 

Plough  the  ocean's  tepid  wave? 
Do  the  Argilaceous  strata 

Or  the  broad  Tertiary's  data 
Show  the  hieroglyphic  data 

Of  your  genealogy? 
What  wild  Alga's  waving  streamer 

Fring'd  your  cryptogamic  homes, 
That  in  unknown  Eons  flourished, 

Round  their  kindred  Diatoms? 


CALEB   S.   COPE.  45 

Through  the  old  Silurian  period, 

Through  the  deep  Devonian  sea, 
Mingling  with  extinct  crustacia, 

In  this  vast  menagerie, 
What  strange  scenes  have  passed  before  them, 

What  strange  beings  met  their  view, 
Listened  to  their  morning  matin, 

As  I  listen  now  to  you ! 
In  the  laminated  structure 

Of  the  carboniferous  bed, 
Are  they  ever  represented 

With  the  fossil,  fern,  and  reed? 
Were  they  microscopic  creatures, 

Sheltered  on  a  spiky  blade, 
Or  some  great  extinct  Batrachian 

In  the  stony  structure  laid  ? 
Did  they  shun  the  slender  nippers 

Of  some  insectiverous  bird, 
Or  contest  the  right  pf  passage 

With  a  mighty  Saurian  lord? 
Some  fortuitous  production, 

Part  of  Evolution's  plan, 
One  of  her  first  damaged  patterns 

Off  the  wheel  when  shaping  man  ? 
Were  they  those  that  worried  Pharaoh, 

From  the  muddy  banks  of  Nile? 
Did  their  song  the  infant  hero 

In  asphaltum  boat  beguile? 
Most  of  these  no  doubt  existed, 

Many  of  them  passed  away, 
But  you  were  the  same  created 

As  you  now  appear  to-day. 
Since  the  earliest  dawn  of  instinct 

There  has  never  yet  been  found 
One  remote  or  living  instance 

Where  a  species  passed  its  bound. 
They  may  dwarf  to  merest  pigmies, 

Or  colossal  may  expand ; 
Still  within  their  separate  classes 

Must  each  separate  species  stand. 
In  continuous  gradation, 

Closely  joined,  yet  strictly  free, 
Organized  so  near  of  kindred, 

Still  no  mingling  e'er  can  be. 


46  CALEB   S.  COPE. 


One  complete  concatenation, 

Link  by  link,  and  span  by  span, 
From  the  lowest  scale  of  being, 

Through  each  genus  up  to  man. 
The  great  Author  of  existence, 

When  creation's  plan  was  laid, 
Ordered  all  things  in  his  wisdom, 

Nor  remodelled  what  was  made. 
By  the  schedule  of  creation, 

All  who  wish  can  plainly  see, 
These  were  planned  for  short  duration, 

These  for  all  eternity. 
We  must  take  annihilation 

As  the  platform  of  our  plan, 
Or  admit  all  things  immortal, 

From  the  zoophite  up  to  man ; 
Or  explain  by  evolution, 

As  progressive  stages  roll, 
Slowly  from  the  bru^e  evolving, 

When  God's  image  found  a  soul. 
Show  me  first  that  soul  is  mortal, 

Ere  you  tell  me  that  I  sprang 
From  the  low  and  base  chimpanzee, 

Monkey,  or  orang-outang. 


REBECCA    CONARD. 


REBECCA    CONARD. 

REBECCA  CONARD,  a  member  of  the  Conard  family  of  West 
Grove  and  vicinity,  and  the  daughter  of  Paul  and  Sarah  (Roberts) 
Conard,  was  born  January  27,  1800,  and  died  in  West  Chester, 
January  5,  1875.  Most  of  her  life  was  spent  in  Chester  County, 
and  part  of  it  in  teaching  in  Westtown  School.  She  spent  much 
of  her  time  and  means  in  ministering  to  the  comforts  tff  the  poor 
and  distressed.  Her  poems  were  collected  after  her  death  by  her 
friends,  and  published  in  a  small  volume  entitled  "  Poems  by  a 
Friend."  Her  poems  are  chaste  and  beautiful,  and  mostly  of  a 
religious  character. 


THE   KING'S   DAUGHTERS. 
The  King's  daughter  is  all  glorious  within. — PSALM  xlv.  13. 

O  outward  plumes  or  paltry  show 

Adorn  Jerusalem's  fair ; 
Nor  yet  with  mincing  steps  they  go, 
Or  braiding  of  the  hair. 

Their  ornaments  are  all  within ; 

All  glorious  are  they,  too  ; 
Untarnished  by  polluting  sin, 

Unsaddened  by- its  woe. 

Their  hearts,  the  temples  of  their  God, 

Made  clean  and  purified 
By  the  atoning,  precious  blood 

Of  Jesus  crucified. 

'Tis  here  His  holiness  and  grace, 

His  honor  loves  to  come ; 
To  enter,  yea,  and  sup  with  such, 

And  claim  them  as  his  own. 

The  sheep  of  his  peculiar  care, 

The  lambs  of  Zion's  fold ; 
No  prowling  wolves  can  enter  there, 

For  Jesus  guards  the  hold, 

And  carries  them  as  in  his  arms, 
And  leads  them  by  the  hand, 

Protecting  from  inclement  storms 
The  weak  ones  of  his  band. 


48  ELIZABETH    M.  CHANDLER. 


ELIZABETH    M.    CHANDLER. 


ELIZABETH  MARGARET  CHANDLER,  daughter  of  Dr.  Thomas  and 
Margaret  .(Evans)  Chandler,  was  born  in  the  old  Chandler  man 
sion,  near  the  State  line,  in  that  part  of  Birmingham  Township  in 
Chester  County  which  is  bounded  by  the  Brandywine  Creek,  and 
the  circular  line  which  forms  the  boundary  between  Pennsylvania 
and  Delaware,  December  24,  1807.  Her  parents  were  of  Eng 
lish  origin,  and  were  exemplary  members  of  the  Society  of  Friends. 
She  lost  her  mother  in  infancy,  shortly  after  which  her  father  re 
moved  to  Philadelphia,  where  she  received  a  good  education  in 
Friends'  schools.  She  commenced  to  write  poetry  when  nine 
years  of  age,  and  when  about  thirteen  quit  school,  and  at  sixteen 
began  to  write  for  the  press,  and  soon  attained  distinction  as  a 
poetess. 

Very  early  in  her  literary  career  she  allied  herself  with  the 
Abolitionists,  who  were  then  beginning  to  make  themselves  felt  in 
the  politics  of  the  country,  and  continued  to  give  them  her  hearty 
and  active  support  while  she  lived.  She  was  the  first  female 
author  who  made  the  emancipation  of  the  colored  people  the 
principal  theme  of  her  active  exertions ;  and  to  her  efforts,  more 
than  to  those  of  any  other  woman,  are  to  be  traced  the  formation 
of  the  sentiments  and  principles  which  led  to  the  organization  of 
the  Abolition  party.  She  resided  in  Philadelphia  until  1830,  when 
she,  in  company  with  an  aunt  and  brother,  removed  to  the  terri 
tory  of  Michigan,  and  settled  near  the  village  of  Tecumseh,  in 
Lenawee  County,  where  she  died,  November  2,  1834. 

Her  poems  and  essays  were  collected  and  published,  together 
with  a  sketch  of  her  life,  by  Benjamin  Lundy,  in  1836. 


THE   BRANDYWINE. 

|Y  foot  has  climb'd  the  rocky  summit's  height, 

And  in  mute  rapture,  from  its  lofty  brow, 
Mine  eye  is  gazing  round  me  with  delight 

On  all  of  beautiful,  above,  below : 
The  fleecy  smoke-wreath  upward  curling  slow, 
The  silvery  waves  half  hid  with  bowering  green, 

That  far  beneath  in  gentle  murmurs  flow, 
Or  onward  dash  in  foam  and  sparkling  sheen, 
While   rocks   and  forest-boughs  hide  half  the  distant 
scene. 


ELIZABETH    M.  CHANDLER.  49 

In  sooth,  from  this  bright  wilderness  'tis  sweet 

To  look  through  loop-holes  form'd  by  forest  boughs, 

And  view  the  landscape  far  beneath  the  feet, 
Where  cultivation  all  its  aid  bestows, 
And  o'er  the  scene  an  added  beauty  throws : 

The  busy  harvest  group,  the  distant  mill, 
The  quiet  cattle  stretch'd  in  calm  repose, 

The  cot,  half  seen  behind  the  sloping  hill, 

All  mingled  in  one  scene  with  most  enchanting  skill. 

The  very  air  that  breathes  around  my  cheek, 
The  summer  fragrance  of  my  native  hills, 

Seems  with  the  voice  of  other  times  to  speak, 
And,  while  it  each  unquiet  feeling  stills, 
My  pensive  soul  with  hallow'd  memories  fills : 

My  fathers'  hall  is  there ;  their  feet  have  press'd 
The  flower-gemm'd  margin  of  these  gushing  rills, 

When  lightly  on  the  water's  dimpled  breast, 

Their  own  light  bark  beside  the  frail  canoe  would  rest. 

The  rock  was  once  your  dwelling-place,  my  sires ! 

Or  cavern  scoop'd  within  the  green  hill's  side; 
The  prowling  wolf  fled  far  your  beacon  fires, 

And  the  kind  Indian  half  your  wants  supplied ; 

While  round  your  necks  the  wampum  belt  he  tied, 

He  bade  you  on  his  lands  in  peace  abide, 
Nor  dread  the  wakening  of  the  midnight  brand, 
Or  aught  of  broken  faith  to  loose  the  peace-belt's  band. 

Oh  !  if  there  is  in  beautiful  and  fair 

A  potency  to  charm,  a  power  to  bless ; 
If  bright  blue  skies  and  music-breathing  air, 

And  nature  in  her  every  varied  dress 

Of  peaceful  beauty  and  wild  loveliness, 
Can  shed  across  the  heart  one  sunshine  ray, 

Then  others,  too,  sweet  stream,  with  only  less 
Than  mine  own  joy,  shall  gaze,  and  bear  away 
Some  cherish'd  thought  of  thee  for  many  a  coming  day. 

But  yet  not  utterly  obscure  thy  banks, 

Nor  all  unknown  to  history's  page  thy  name ; 

For  there  wild  war  hath  pour'd  his  battle  ranks, 
And  stamped  in  characters  of  blood  and  flame 
Thine  annals  in  the  chronicles  of  fame. 


5<D  ELIZABETH    M.  CHANDLER. 

The  wave  that  ripples  on,  so  calm  and  still, 

Hath  trembled  at  the  war-cry's  loud  acclaim ; 
The  cannon's  voice  hath  roll'd  from  hill  to  hill, 
And  'midst  thy  echoing  vales  the  trump  hath  sounded 
shrill. 

My  country's  standard  waved  on  yonder  height, 
Her  red-cross  banner  England  there  display'd, 

And  there  the  German,  who,  for  foreign  fight, 
Had  left  his  own  domestic  hearth,  and  made 
War,  with  its  horrors  and  its  blood,  a  trade, 

Amidst  the  battle  stood  ;  and  all  the  day, 
The  bursting  bomb,  the  furious  cannonade, 

The  bugle's  martial  notes,  the  musket's  play, 

In  mingled  uproar  wild,  resounded  far  away. 

Thick    clouds   of  smoke    obscured    the   clear    bright 
sky, 

And  hung  above  them  like  a  funeral  pall, 
Shrouding  both  friend  and  foe,  so  soon  to  lie 

Like  brethren  slumbering  in  one  father's  hall. 

The  work  of  death  went  on,  and  when  the  fall 
Of  night  came  onward  silently,  and  shed 

A  dreary  hush,  where  late  was  uproar  all, 
How  many  a  brother's  heart  in  anguish  bled 
O'er  chfcrish'd  ones,  who  there  lay  resting  with   the 
dead. 

Unshrouded  and  uncoffin'd  they  were  laid 

Within  the  soldier's  grave,  e'en  where  they  fell; 

At  noon  they  proudly  trod  the  field ;  the  spade 
At  night  dug  out  their  resting-place,  and  well 
And  calmly  did  they  slumber,  though  no  bell 

Peal'd  over  them  its  solemn  music  slow ; 

The  night-winds  sung  their  only  dirge,  their  knell 

Was  but  the  owlet's  boding  cry  of  woe, 

The  flap  of  night-hawk's  wing  and  murmuring  waters' 
flow. 

But  it  is  over  now, — the  plough  hath  rased 

All  trace  of  where  war's  wasting  hand  hath  been  : 

No  vestige  of  the  battle  may  be  traced, 

Save  where  the  share,  in  passing  o'er  the  scene, 
Turns  up  some  rusted  ball ;  the  maize  is  green 


SUSANNA    DANCE.  5  I 


On  what  was  once  the  death-bed  of  the  brave ; 
The  waters  have  resumed  their  wonted  sheen, 
The  wild  bird  sings  in  cadence  with  the  wave, 
And  naught  remains   to  show  the   sleeping  soldier's 
grave. 

A  pebble-stone  that  on  the  war-field  lay, 

And  a  wild-rose  that  blossom'd  brightly  there, 

Were  all  the  relics  that  I  bore  away, 

To  tell  that  I  had  trod  the  scene  of  war, 
When  I  had  turn'd  my  footsteps  homeward  far. 

These  may  seem  childish  things  to  some ;  to  me 
They  shall  be  treasured  ones ;  and,  like  the  star 

That  guides  the  sailor  o'er  the  pathless  sea, 

They  shall  lead  back  my  thoughts,  loved  Brandywine, 
to  thee. 


SUSANNA   DANCE. 

THIS  author  is  the  daughter  of  John  and  Ann  (Wilson)  Dance, 
and  was  born  in  New  London  Township,  in  1821.  She  was 
educated  at  the  Hebron  Public  School,  and  at  the  select  school  of 
Thomas  Conard  in  London  Grove  Township.  Much  of  her  life 
after  reaching  maturity  was  spent  in  teaching  in  the  public  and 
private  schools  of  the  neighborhood  and  in  Samuel  Martin's  Sem 
inary  in  Kennet  Square.  She  was  a  kind-hearted,  exemplary 
member  of  the  Society  of  Friends,  and  was  greatly  beloved  by 
her  pupils.  She  wrote  poetry  when  about  twenty  years  of  age, 
and  was  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  Chester  County  journals 
under  the  noms  de  plume  of  Giovanna  and  Estelle.  She  died 
October  16,  1854,  beloved  and  regretted  by  all  who  knew  her. 
Her  poems  exhibit  a  high  degree  of  excellence,  and  entitle  her 
to  rank  with  the  best  writers  her  native  county  has  produced. 


ANGEL  WHISPERS. 

N  infant  slept,  and  o'er  its  face 

A  smile  of  beauty  stole ; 
Its  guardian  angel  came  to  trace 

A  line  on  heaven's  scroll. 
We  saw  no  record,  not  a  word 

Fell  on  the  list'ning  ear; 
The  child  alone  the  whisper  heard, 

"  Thy  name  is  entered  here." 


52  SUSANNA    DANCE. 


A  bright-eyed  boy  with  sunny  curls 

Had  thrown  his  toys  aside ; 
His  angel  whispered,  "  Here  are  pearls 

Worth  all  the  world  beside. 
Thy  life  is  young,  but  not  too  young 

To  own  these  priceless  gems, 
That  I  may  place  thy  crown  among 

The  angel's  diadems." 

A  youth  with  fierce  and  burning  eye 

Stood  on  the  battle  plain  ; 
He  saw  the  brave  around  him  die, 

With  none  to  soothe  their  pain. 
A  voice,  an  angel's  voice,  he  hears, — 

"  A  laurel  wreath,  oh,  see  ! 
'Tis  not  bedewed  with  orphans'  tears, — 

Come,  I  will  give  it  thee." 

A  famished  orphan  begged  for  bread, 

And  many  an  insult  bore, 
Until  in  grief  she  bowed  her  head, 

To  ask  for  alms  no  more. 
"Within  my  father's  house  of  rest 

Are  many  mansions  found," 
Her  angel  spake  ;  "be  not  distressed, 

In  one  thou  shalt  be  crowned." 

A  widowed  mother,  poor  and  lone, 

Knelt  down  in  earnest  prayer ; 
The  angel  whispered,  "  God  will  own 

Thy  Lazarus  spirit  there. 
Thy  little  flock  shall  meet  his  eyes 

When  thou  to  earth  art  dead, 
For  He  who  heeds  the  raven's  cry 

Will  surely  give  them  bread." 

An  aged  man,  alone  and  sad, 

Sat  musing  o'er  the  past, 
For  hours  that  made  his  spirit  glad 

Were  all  too  bright  to  last ; 
The  world  deals  harshly  with  him  now, 

He  longs  for  life's  release, — 
But  see,  a  smile  lights  up  his  brow, 

His  angel  whispers,  "  Peace." 


SUSANNA    DANCE.  .  53 


A  felon  in  yon  prison-cell 

Awaits  his  final  doom  ; 
Weary  of  life,  he  still  must  dwell 

Amid  that  fearful  gloom; 
Yet  not  alone, — the  angel  comes 

That  bears  the  record  scroll, 
And  whispers,  "  Here  are  holy  crumbs, 

To  feed  thy  famished  soul." 

The  wayworn  pilgrim,  sandal-shod, 

Sighs  for  his  childhood's  home, 
When  lo  !  he  hears  the  voice  of  God, — 

"  I  love  thee  !  welcome  home  !" 
And  when  amid  the  coral  isles 

The  gallant  ship  is  tossed, 
A  whisper  comes, — the  sailor  smiles, — 

"  Thy  barque  shall  not  be  lost." 

Thus  every  conscious  child  of  earth 

Must  know  a  faithful  friend  ; 
For  angels  guard  us  from  our  birth, 

And  all  our  steps  attend; 
When  pleasure  lures,  with  winning  tones, 

They  check  our  wayward  will, 
And  when  the  angry  tempest  moans, 

They  whisper,  "  Peace,  be  still." 


THE   DEW-DROP. 

N  the  crown  of  royalty 

Diamonds  may  brightly  shine, 
But  there's  more  of  loyalty 
In  the  dew-drop's  ray  benign. 

Softly  and  unseen  it  cometh, 
As  the  twilight  shadows  fall, 

When  the  bee  no  longer  hummeth, 
And  repose  encircles  all. 

5* 


54  SUSANNA    DANCE. 

When  the  merry  voice  of  childhood 
On  the  lea  is  heard  no  more, 

But  the  tones  of  age  and  manhood 
Greet  us  from  the  cottage  door  ; 

When  the  little  flowers  are  sleeping, 
With  their  petals  folded  up, 

Then  the  angel,  vigils  keeping, 
Puts  a  dew-drop  in  their  cup ; 

Stoops  to  place  a  crystal  jewel 
On  each  tender  blade  of  green, 

Thankful  of  this  kind  renewal 
Of  the  morrow's  silver  sheen. 

Busy  at  the  grape-vine  trellis, 
All  unseen  by  mortal  eye, 

Beaded  fringes  quickly  tell  us 
Dew-drop  angel  passes  by. 

Forest  leaves,  though  proud  and  lofty, 
Rocked  by  every  breeze  at  will, 

Hear  the  footstep  fall  as  softly 
As  the  leaflet  by  the  rill. 

Walk  abroad  at  early  morning, 

When  the  slanting  sunbeams  shine, 

Myriad  rainbows  are  adorning, 
With  a  beauty  half  divine. 

Every  net-work  fabric  glistens 

With  the  night's  refreshing  tears, 
And  the  ear  unbidden  listens 

For  the  "  Music  of  the  Spheres." 

And  at  day's  serene  declining, 
Hear  the  whisper  ever  true, — 

Only  when  the  stars  are  shining, 
Comes  the  angel  of  the  dew. 


SUSANNA    DANCE.  55 


THE   WAY-SIDE   TREE. 

JPON  a  pleasant  hill-side, 
Near  by  a  gentle  rill, 
A  way-side  tree  is  standing, 
I  seem  to  see  it  still, 

As  in  the  pleasant  springtime 
Its  clustering  curls  were  hung 

Among  the  bright  green  leaflets, 
When  merry  spring  birds  sung, 

And  built  their  nests  inwoven 

With  silky  texture  neat, 
To  rear  the  tiny  nestlings 

That  made  their  joy  complete. 

And  when  the  golden  harvest 
Spread  beauty  o'er  the  glade, 

The  reapers  oft  at  noon-tide 
Have  rested  in  its  shade. 

And  oft  the  weary  trav'ler, 

Whose  little  all  on  earth 
Was  pilgrim-staff  and  knapsack, 

Has  known  its  precious  worth. 

The  panting  sheep  and  cattle 
Have  ofttimes  gathered  there, 

At  noonday  and  at  evening, 
To  claim  an  humble  share. 

And  when  the  stealthy  frost-king 
Touch'd  forest,  hill,  and  dell, 

And  timid,  slanting  sunbeams 
On  fading  foliage  fell, 

The  gusty  winds  of  autumn 
Passed  by  with  hollow  sound, 

And  bright  brown  nuts  came  falling 
Like  rain-drops  to  the  ground. 


56  SUSANNA    DANCE. 


Then  in  the  morning  twilight, 
With  spirits  light  and  free, 

We  gathered  up  the  treasures 
Of  this  old  way-side  tree. 

And  when  the  chilly  winter 
Spread  snow-flakes  all  around, 

And  with  an  icy  fetter 

The  gentle  streamlets  bound, 

Instead  of  spring-time  ringlets, 
Half  hidden  from  the  sight, 

He  hung  the  crystal  fringes, 
To  glitter  in  the  light ; 

But  in  the  genial  sunbeams 
They  wept  themselves  away, 

To  shine  out  in  the  rainbow, 
Upon  a  summer  day. 

So  many  thoughts  come  crowding 
Of  this  old  way-side  tree, 

It  seems  as  if  life's  spring-time 
Had  all  come  back  to  me. 

The  sad  days  and  the  pleasant 
Have  each  a  record  there ; 

But  one,  a  fair,  bright  morning, 
An  angel's  trace  doth  bear. 

The  sad,  but  kind  reprovings 

A  loving  parent  gave, — 
The  gentle,  timely  warning, 

From  folly's  path  to  save. 

Yea,  long  in  memory's  casket 
Those  hallowed  words  shall  live ; 

They  came  with  heavenly  healing, 
And  taught  me  how  to  live. 

Then  spare  this  tree,  kind  woodman, 

I  would  not  with  it  part ; 
'Tis  as  a  vine,  whose  tendrils 

Are  clinging  round  my  heart. 


THE    DARLINGTON    FAMILY. 


Still  let  it  guard  the  homestead, 
As  in  the  days  of  yore, 

The  sunny  days  of  childhood, 
That  will  return  no  more. 


THE   DARLINGTON    FAMILY. 


THE  Darlingtons  are  among  the  oldest  families  of  Chester 
County,  and  are  the  descendants  of  a  common  ancestor,  who  came 
from  England  and  settled  in  East  Bradford  Township,  a  few  miles 
southwest  of  West  Chester,  early  in  the  history  of  the  county. 


CHANDLER   DARLINGTON. 

CHANDLER  DARLINGTON,  son  of  Abram  and  Susanna  Dar 
lington,  was  born  in  Thornbury  Township,  within  the  limits  of 
Brandywine  battle-ground,  in  1800.  The  following  brief  sketch 
is  from  the  pen  of  one  who  knew  him  well.  Chandler  was 

"  Formed  on  the  good  old  plan, 
A  true  and  brave  and  downright  honest  man." 

He  was  educated  in  the  common  schools  ;  was  a  birthright  member 
of  the  Society  of  Friends ;  an  agriculturist  by  occupation,  and 
worked  with  his  own  hands ;  sang  Robert  Burns's  songs  when  at 
the  plough ;  loved  his  home,  and  wrote  verses  for  his  own  and  his 
friends'  amusement,  and  peacefully  passed  from  life  in  1879. 


CHARLES    HOWARD    DARLINGTON. 

THIS  writer  is  the  son  of  Howard  Darlington  and  Anna  M., 
daughter  of  Judge  Townsend  Haines.  He  was  born  in  West 
Chester  in  1848.  He  was  educated  at  private  schools  in  Iowa 
and  Pennsylvania,  and  graduated  at  Haverford  College  in  his 
nineteenth  year.  After  spending  a  short  time  clerking  in  a  dry- 
goods  house  in  Philadelphia,  he  engaged  in  teaching  school,  and 
taught  in  West  Chester,  Chappaqua,  and  East  Hamburg.  For 
some  years  he  has  been  editor  of  the  Tennessee  Pilot,  published 
in  Morristown,  East  Tennessee.  He  wrote  poetry  in  his  youth. 
His  grandfather,  Judge  Haines,  and  his  grand-uncle,  Chandler 
Darlington,  were  poets  of  no  mean  ability.  His  poems  published 
in  this  book  were  written  in  youth  and  early  manhood. 


58  CHANDLER    DARLINGTON. 


FENELON   DARLINGTON. 

FENELON  DARLINGTON  was  the  son  of  Stephen  and  Ann  Dar 
lington.  He  was  born  in  Pocopson  Township,  March  27,  1827, 
and  died  March  4,  1883.  His  father  was  a  first  cousin  of  Chandler 
Darlington.  He  was  educated  at  the  common  schools  and  at 
Strode's  boarding-school,  near  West  Chester.  In  1853  he  published 
a  small  volume  of  poems  entitled  "  A  Token  of  Esteem  and  Re 
membrance  for  my  Young  Friends  at  School."  The  book  bears 
evidence  that  the  young  friends  referred  to  had  been  under  his 
tuition. 


CHANDLER   DARLINGTON. 
PERIODICAL  WEDDINGS. 

LONG  time  ago,  and  not  very  long,  either, 
When    young   folks   got   a   notion    of  living 

together, 
They  simply  got  married  and   left   the   old 

hives, 

And  that  was  expected  to  last  them  their  lives. 
They  sometimes  came  together  without  scrip  or  purse, 
Just  taking  each  other  for  better  or  worse ; 
If  any  one  doubted  their  taking  such  caper, 
They  at  once  were  referred  to  the  old  marriage  paper  ; 
They  jogged   on  together  through    hot  and  through 

cold, 

And  knew  nothing  of  weddings  of  silver  or  gold ; 
And  as  for  the  world,  without  going  'round  it, 
Were  contented  to  leave  it  as  good  as  they  found  it. 
Thus  they  quietly  passed  to  the  end  of  their  time, 
Without  being  recorded  in  prose  or  in  rhyme. 

But  now,  if  a  couple  get  married  and  go 
Five  years  without  parting,  the  people  must  know, 
And  assemble,  to  see  if  the  bond  is  still  good, 
And  if  not,  make  it  stronger  with  braces  of  wood. 
When  other  five  years  they  have  journeyed  along, 
Tho'  the  bond  may  appear  to  be  perfectly  strong, 
'Tis  examined,  and  e'en  if  no  flaw  comes  to  view, 
Tin-hooped  and  soldered,  they  are  started  anew. 


CHANDLER    DARLINGTON.  59 

When  other  five  years  of  their  sands  have  been  run, 

To  see  if  the  two  have  been  working  as  one, 

A  glass  is  presented  reflecting  their  life  j 

If  that  shows  a  dutiful  husband  and  wife, 

Ten  years  they're  permitted  to  travel  along, 

Should  they  wander  alone  or  in  midst  of  the  throng ; 

But  coming  up  right  at  the  twenty-fifth  year, 

Entertaining  their  friends  with  the  best  of  good  cheer, 

From  that  silver  portal  they  again  may  set  out, 

And  a  fourth  of  a  century  wander  about ; 

And  if  they  should  live  to  their  fiftieth  year, 

And  again  show  their  goodness  by  furnishing  cheer, 

And  make  an  acceptable  final  report 

To  this  self-approved  periodical  court, 

Henceforth  they  may  wander  unwatched  and  unheeded, 

Believing  that  no  further  care  will  be  needed, 

Except  just  to  hint,  for  it  scarce  need  be  told, 

They'll  accept  a  few  presents,  provided  they're  gold. 


THE   FORTIES. 

(INSCRIBED  TO  A  FRIEND  ON  HER  FORTY-FIRST 
BIRTHDAY.) 


ORTY  days  and  forty  nights 

The  rain  in  deluge  poured, 
To  manifest  to  wicked  men 
The  anger  of  the  Lord. 

The  rainbow  spread  its  gorgeous  hues 
Athwart  the  heavens  above, 

To  show  that  judgment,  tho'  severe, 
Is  tempered  still  with  love. 

Forty  years  full  ten  times  told, 

Beneath  a  tyrant's  sway, 
The  people  chosen  of  the  Lord 

In  cruel  bondage  lay. 


6O  CHANDLER    DARLINGTON. 


Forty  years  had  Moses  lived, 

Ere  God  did  him  require 
To  execute  the  word  that  came 

From  out  the  bush  of  fire. 

The  Israelites,  on  manna  fed, 

For  forty  years  did  roam, 
Ere  yet  permitted  to  possess 

Their  promised  future  home. 

Obedient  to  their  leader's  word 

Went  forth  the  tribal  band, 
Who  after  forty  days  returned 

From  spying  out  the  land.    . 

Forty  years  was  David  king, 

Forty  his  son  did  reign  ; 
But  ere  another  forty  passed 

The  realm  was  rent  in  twain. 

In  later  times  the  Ninevites 

Were  granted  forty  days 
To  heed  the  warning  Jonah  gave, 

And  quit  their  wicked  ways. 

Forty  days  the  Saviour  went 

Through  tempting  scenes,  to  prove 

That  man,  if  not  forever  lost, 
Must  be  redeemed  by  love. 

Forty  days  his  spirit  stayed, 

Appearing  now  and  then, 
To  banish  doubt  and  unbelief 

That  haunted  faithless  men. 

Forty  years  hast  thou,  my  friend, 

Matured  to  noble  ends ; 
Thy  loving  heart  and  kindly  deeds 

Endear  thee  to  thy  friends. 

May  forty  years  or  more  to  come 

Still  be  enjoyed  by  thee, 
Till  time  shall  close,  and,  with  "Well  done,'' 

Shall  set  thy  spirit  free. 


CHARLES    H.  DARLINGTON.  6 1 


CHARLES   H.  DARLINGTON. 

THE   DEAD   HOPE. 

EAD  !  my  beautiful,  my  hope  ! 
Oh,  how  should'st  thou  be  dead? 

Thou  wert  so  fair,  so  very,  very  fair, 
And  didst  in  all  nobilties  rejoice — 
Health,  strength,  and  comeliness,  and  now  thy  voice 

Cometh  no  longer  on  the  happy  air, 
And  thou,  alas  !  art  dead, 
My  beautiful,  my  hope — dead. 

Hope,  why  liest  thou  so  still, 
So  silent,  when  I  call ; 

So  cold  and  pale,  and  oh,  so  beautiful? 
Dead  ?    Who  shall  dare  to  tell  me  thou  art  dead  ? 
The  curse  of  his  own  words  be  on  his  head. 

Thou  call'st  on  sleep,  and  sleep,  the  dutiful, 
Hath  hastened  to  thy  call ; 
Why  liest  thou  so  still,  hope  ? 

Dead  !     And  I  am  left  alone. 
Yes,  dead  ;  for  if  'twere  sleep, 

My  voice  would  break  thy  slumber's  golden  chain, 
Call  back  the  sunny  smiles  into  thy  face, 
Waken  thy  voice  with  all  its  silver  grace, 

And  give  me  back  my  darling  hope  again. 
But,  no  !  thou  dost  not  sleep ; 
And  I  am  left  alone, — dead. 

Deep  I'll  bury  thee  in  my  heart — 
I'll  bury  thee  alone, 

And  plant  sweet  thoughts  about  thy  precious  grave. 
Oh  !  Death,  thou  makest  cruel,  cruel  dearth ; 
Why  sparest  not  my  one  thing  loved  of  earth  ? 

May  love  from  thee  the  loved  one  never  save  ? 
I'll  lay  thee,  hope,  alone ; 
I'll  bury  thee  in  my  heart — alone. 


62  CHARLES    H.  DARLINGTON. 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  TEMPEST. 

|N  the  dim  of  early  morning  came  a  vision  royal 

fair, 
Of  a  graceful,  stately  woman,  with  a  sweep  of 

raven  hair. 

On  her  brow  pink  corruscations  played  with  never- 
ceasing  glow ; 

'Twas  the  angel  of  the  tempest,  bearing  gifts  to  men 
below. 

Not  as  heathen  Athens  painted,  a  warrior  in  mail, 
Whose  brow  was  dark  and  sullen,  and  whose  footsteps 

clicked  with  hail ; 
Not  a  wild,  hot-headed  rider  of  the  wind,  as  some 

portray, 
But  the  fairest  of  fair  women  in  the  light  of  early  day. 

From  her  left  hand,  drooping  downward,  spreading  from 

its  finger-tips, 
Streamed  the   blessed  rains   of  heaven  to  a   million 

thirsty  lips ; 
And  her  right  hand,  pointing  forward  as  she  sped, 

trailed  o'er  her  form 
Thick  rich  folds  of  billowy  vesture,  the  garments  of 

the  storm. 

On  her  way  she  passed  with  blessings,  and  the  drops 

upon  her  wear 
Glittered  in  the  following  sunlight,  like  a  wealth  of 

jewels  rare ; 
And  her  scarf,   flung  o'er  her  shoulder,  barred  with 

lines  of  brightest  dye, 
Shone,  betokening  her  kindly,  athwart  the  happy  sky. 


FENELON    DARLINGTON.  63 

FENELON    DARLINGTON. 

AN  INVOCATION. 

HOU,  who  hang'st  out  your  curtains  blue 
On  high,  to  our  enraptur'd  view, 
Extendeth  round  a  sov' reign  care 
To  planet  worlds  revolving  there ; 
By  whom  the  moon  its  sceptre  sways, 
And  Sol  sheds  forth  his  cheering  rays, 
Illume,  with  thy  inshining  ray, 
The  pilgrim  'long  his  onward  way. 

When  wrathful  passions  rise  within, 
And  urge  him  thoughtless  on  to  sin, 
Pour  in  his  mind  that  soothing  balm, 
Which  will  the  storm  and  whirlwind  calm  j 
When  from  without  the  shafts  of  wrong 
Assail,  from  envy's  busy  throng, 
Through  thy  unbounded  goodness  free, 
Grant  him  sustaining  faith  in  Thee. 

When  clouds  of  darkness  gather  round, 
Or  curtains  fall  of  night  profound  ; 
When  anguish  here  and  torture  there 
Disclose  the  pits  of  deep  despair ; 
When,  having  drunk  affliction's  draught, 
And  e'en  its  bitter  dregs  all  quaffed ; 
When  dwelling  low,  Thy  love  to  gain, 
May  he  not  seek  Thy  face  in  vain, 

But  find  in  truth  that  Thou  art  near, 
To  keep  his  soul  in  holy  fear; 
To  lead  him  in  the  path  of  peace, 
Where  sorrow  will  from  troubling  cease  ; 
Sustain  him  with  an  arm  of  power 
Throughout  each  dark  and  gloomy  hour; 
Unslumb'ringly,  from  day  to-day, 
To  guide  his  steps  in  wisdom's  way. 

'Tis  then  he  sees  the  narrow  scan 
Of  frail,  weak,  dependent  man ; 


64  LOUIS    EISENBEIS. 


He  learns  that  if  he  would  be  free, 
Himself  must  truly  humble  be ; 
He  feels  that  woes  of  earthly  kind 
Have  all  his  inner  man  refin'd  ; 
And,  from  the  bonds  of  error  free, 
Finds  life,  and  light,  and  joy  in  Thee. 


LEWIS   EISENBEIS. 

LEWIS  EISENBEIS  was  born  in  Saarbruck,  West  Prussia,  in  1835, 
and  came  to  this  country  with  his  parents  when  he  was  about  two 
years  old.  The  family  settled  in  West  Chester,  where  most  of  his 
life  has  been  spent.  The  loss  of  his  father  at  twelve  years  of  age 
threw  him  upon  his  own  resources,  since  which  time  he  has  carved 
his  way  to  something  better  and  more  enduring  than  affluence. 
Mr.  Eisenbeis  began  his  literary  career  when  an  apprentice  to  the 
shoemaking  business,  when  he  would  frequently  entertain  the  men 
in  the  shop  by  his  poetical  effusions,  so  that  long  before  reaching 
manhood  he  had  gained  much  notoriety  as  a  poet.  He  was  edu 
cated  in  the  West  Chester  public  school,  and  spent  several  years 
in  teaching  in  the  public  schools  of  Chester  County,  never,  how 
ever,  allowing  his  poetical  genius  to  slumber.  His  poems  were 
always  gladly  received  by  the  newspapers  of  the  county,  and  many 
of  them  were  copied  by  other  journalists.  Several  of  his  poems 
have  elicited  extended  notices  of  commendation  as  compositions 
of  unusual  merit,  ranking  with  the  poetry  of  the  more  celebrated 
poets  of  the  day.  Much  of  his  best  poetry  has  not  been  published. 
Mr.  Eisenbeis.  was  married,  in  1878,  to  Miss  Elizabeth  Fell,  of 
Southern  Chester  County,  and  resides  in  West  Chester. 


THE   CHURCH   FAIR. 

JHERE  !  I  knowed  it  would  be  so,  spite  of  all 

my  word  and  prayer, 
They've  resolved  to  jine  together,  for  to  hold 

a  fancy  fair : 
When  I  told  them  my  objections,  though  my  words 

were  few  an'  mild, 

They  just  turned  to  one  another,  and  they  looked  so 
queer  an'  smiled. 


LOUIS    EISENBEIS.  65 


Now,  I've  mingled  with  them  sisters  for  a  score  of  years 

or  more, 
And  there's  none  that  has  worked  harder;  but  I  wept 

my  eyelids  sore 
When  I  saw  them  smile  and  giggle,  in  the  solemn  place 

of  prayer, 
Just  because  I  spoke  an'  voted  'gin  the  holding  of  a 

fair. 

But  they  'pinted  their  committees,  and  arranged  the 

plaguey  thing, 
Just  to  suit  their  crazy  notions,  for  the  money  it  would 

bring ; 
As  they  said,  "  They  needed  carpet,  and  new  cushions 

in  the  pews, 

For  the  church  was  out  of  fashion ;  nothing  in  it  fit 
.  to  use. 

"And  the  choir  wants  an  organ,  and  the  church  a 

chandelier, 
And  the  pulpit  must  be  altered,  for  it  looked  so  odd 

an'  queer; 
They  had  tried  to  raise  the  money  by  collections  in 

the  pew, 
But  they  couldn't  git  no  dollars,  and  of  pennies  but  a 

few." 

Sermons  didn't  seem  to  reach  'em,  but  they  loved  to 

drink  and  eat, 
So,  to  save  the  dyin'  people,  they  must  give  them 

fleshly  meat ; 
If  their  souls  were  worth  the  savin',  they  must  have  the 

sweetened  cup, 
Gospel  meat  was  too  insipid  for  to  keep  the  meetin's  up. 

There  was  sisters  Jane  and  Sary,  and  a  score  of  others, 

too, 
Met    together   every    evenin'    for   to  put   the    matter 

through  ; 
They  would  move  and  reconsider,  then    resolve  and 

move  ag'in, 
Till  it  seemed  as  if  the  business  never  would  be  voted 

in. 
e  6* 


66  LOUIS    EISENBEIS. 


Some  thought  the  waiting-maidens  should  be  of  the 

"  upper  ten," 
'Cause  they  said  their  charms  would  dazzle,  an'  draw 

in  the  younger  men. 
They  must  have  a  pond  for  fishin',  with  some  tender 

little  baits, 
Where  the  boys  could  catch  a  trifle,  and  the  girls  could 

fish  for  mates. 

They  must  have  a  postal  office,  and  a  guessin'  stand, 

they  sayed, 

And  Rebecca  at  the  well,  a-dispensin'  lemonade ; 
They  must  vote  a  handsome  dolly  to  the  prettiest  miss 

in  town, 
And  the  spryest-lookin*  bachelor  gits  the  gaudy  dressin' 

gown. 

• 

The  sweetest  maiden  gets  the  ring,  lodged  within  the 

massive  cake, 
And  for  very  little  money  you  can  learn  your  future 

fate. 
Little  maidens,  dressed  like  fairies,  must  go  bobbin* 

here  and  there, 
Sellin'  little  buds  and  roses,  for  the  girls  and  boys  to 

wear. 

So  they  plan,  invent,  and  settle,  for  to  help  the  thing 

along, 
Just  as  if  the  Lord  had  blundered,  and  had  fixed  the 

matter  wrong ; 
Just  as  if  the  souls  of  people  could  be  fed  on  such  a 

hash, 
And   the   church  was  built  a  purpose  for  to  git   the 

people's  cash. 

Then  they  read  it  in  the  meetin'  when  the  thing  was 
comin'  off, 

And  although  it  seemed  irreverent,  I  jist  gave  a  scorn 
ful  cough ; 

For  I  wanted  them  to  know  it,  even  though  the  thing 
might  win, 

I  vas  down  upon  sich  nonsense,  so  they  needn't  count 
me  in. 


LOUIS    EISENBEIS.  67 


So  when  everything  was  ready  for  the  openin'  of  the 

show, 
With  their  trinkets  and  their  gewgaws — and  I  tell  you 

'twasn't  slow — 
There   were   vases,    sewing-baskets,   needle-work,  and 

rubber  toys, 
Fancy  hoods  and  gingham  aprons — velvet  slippers  for 

the  boys. 

There  were  fancy  smellin'  bottles,  collars,  handker 
chiefs,  and  sich, 

Stacks  and  stacks  of  shinin'  nothin',  which  they  said 
was  very  rich ; 

There  were  heaps  of  little  trifles,  hardly  worth  a  grain 
of  dust ; 

Stacks  and  stacks  of  empty  bubbles,  which  they  said 
would  never  bust. 

Then   they  had   a  lively  raffle   for  a  lot   of  showy 

stuff, 
Which  they  said  was  for  the  winner,  if  he  got  but  votes 

enough. 

All  they  had  to  do  to  git  it  was  to  pay  a  little  fee ; 
As  it  went  to  help  the  meetin',  there  was  not  a  better 

plea. 

So  the  thing  was  kept  a-movin',  crowds  went  pourin' 

in  and  out, 
Till  the  meetin'    folks   and    others  said  'twas  grand 

without  a  doubt ; 
They  had  bought  their  pockets  empty,  and  had  filled 

their  stomicks  full, 
Till  the  sisters  fairly  shouted,  they  had  made  so  good 

a  pull. 

"  Now,"  they  said,  "  we've  got  the  money,  not  in  vain 

our  toil  an'  search ; 
We'll  put  in  the  latest  fashions,  we  will  have  a  stylish 

church ; 
We  will  show  these  fossil  fogies  churches  can't  be  run 

on  air ; 
Churches  fatten  more  on  dollars  than  they  do  on  faith 

and  prayer." 


68  LOUIS    EISENBEIS. 


I  have  been  a  faithful  sister  ever  since   my  youthful 

days ; 
I  have  loved  the  courts  of  Zion ;   I  have  prized  her 

simple  ways ; 
I  have  read  my  Bible  over ;  I  have  read  it  through  in 

prayer ; 
But  I've  never  seen  a  passage  that  enjined  a  fancy 

fair. 


A  THANKSGIVING   ODE. 

HE  autumn  winds  go  whistling  by, 
Amongst  the  leafless  trees  they  sigh  ; 
The  eddying  leaves  join  in  the  fray, 
And  whirl  and  dance  in  merry  play ; 
O'er  shrub  and  hedge,  o'er  field  and  wood, 
November  pours  a  golden  flood. 

The  smiling  heaps  of  yellow  corn 
The  stubbled  fields  with  wealth  adorn, 
And  autumn  sings  her  glad  refrain 
In  luscious  fruits  and  gathered  grain  ; 
The  old  press  in  the  orchard  groans, 
And  swells  the  song  with  gleeful  tones. 

In  sluggish  groups,  the  lowing  kine 
Behind  the  sheltering  shocks  recline  ; 
While  fields,  of  summer  verdure  shorn, 
Are  whitened  by  the  frosty  morn. 
The  murmuring  brook  runs  low  and  still, 
And  shrinks  to  feel  the  wintry  chill. 

Upon  the  farmer's  blazing  hearth 
The  winter  log  now  glows  with  mirth ; 
The  merry  laugh  and  childish  play 
Attest  a  glad  Thanksgiving  Day, 
And  loved  ones,  long  apart,  once  more 
Are  met  as  in  the  days  of  yore. 

Thus  home  and  heart,  and  field  and  wood, 
Are  radiant  with  abundant  good  ; 
And  bursting  barns  and  harvest  toil 
Bespeak  God's  blessing  on  the  soil  ;• 


LOUIS    EISENBEIS.  69 


With  reverent  hearts  let  us  adore 
The  giver  of  the  fruitful  store. 

By  kindly  deeds  let  us  secure 
Like  blessings  to  the  humbled  poor ; 
To  lonely  home  and  saddened  heart 
The  sunshine  of  a  smile  impart ; 
So  shall  we  by  our  deeds  convey 
The  import  of  Thanksgiving  Day. 

Let  each  seek  out  another's  need, 

For  this  is  thankfulness  indeed. 

The  cheerful  giver  thus  shall  prove 

The  true  omnipotence  of  love ; 

He  spreads  the  fragrant  breath  of  May- 

His  life  is  one  Thanksgiving  Day. 


MY  MOTHER'S  FACE. 

FT  in  the  busy  whirl  of  life's  relentless  beat, 

When  weary  nature  seeks  a  longing  rest, 
I  pause  to  gaze  upon  a  face,  divinely  sweet, 
That  decks  the  gallery  of  my  throbbing  breast. 

When  earth-born  shadows  o'er  my  spirit  roll, 
And  love's  responsive  chord  I  vainly  trace, 

A  glance  at  this  is  sunshine  to  my  soul, — 
The  picture  of  my  mother's  saintly  face. 

There  it  hangs  !  a  picture  pure  as  truth, 
Brightening  as  the  busy  years  go  by, 

Fresh  with  the  lineaments  of  a  fadeless  youth  ; 
Though  all  things  perish,  this  shall  never  die. 

That  tender  face  still  speaks  without ;  within, 
A  mother's  love,  a  mother's  wooing  skill ; 

And  now,  when  age  comes  on  and  eyes  grow  dim, 
I  see  that  charming  face  more  plainly  still. 

My  mother's  face  !  no  nobler  gift  I  prize  ; 

Radiant  and  calm  in  its  mirrored  trust ; 
When  other  faces  fade,  and  weary  nature  dies, 

That  saintly  face  survives  my  crumbling  dust. 


7O  JAMES    B.   EVERHART. 


JAMES   BOWEN    EVERHART. 

JAMES  BOWEN  EVERHART,  son  of  William  and  Hannah  (Mat- 
lack)  Everhart,  was  born  in  West  Whiteland  Township,  July  26, 
1821,  and  died  at  West  Chester,  August  23,  1888.  His  grand 
father,  James  Everhart,  was  a  soldier  in  the  American  army  in  the 
Revolutionary  War.  His  father  was  for  many  years  a  justice  of 
the  peace,  and  also  a  successful  merchant  in  West  Chester,  and 
served  with  distinction  as  a  member  of  the  Thirty-third  Congress, 
to  which  he  was  elected  in  1852. 

James  B.  Everhart  was  educated  at  Bolmar's  Academy  in  West 
Chester,  and  at  Princeton  College,  where  he  was  graduated  with 
honor  in  1842.  He  studied  law  in  the  office  of  the  Hon.  Joseph 
J.  Lewis,  in  the  Harvard  Law  School,  and  in  the  office  of  the  Hon. 
William  M.  Meredith,  and  was  admitted  to  practise  in  the  courts 
of  Chester  County  and  of  Philadelphia,  in  1845.  He  subse 
quently  visited  Europe  and  spent  several  months  in  the  University 
of  Berlin. 

Though  eminently  successful  as  a  lawyer,  Mr.  Everhart  was 
equally  so  as  a  man  of  letters.  His  first  publication  was  entitled 
"  Miscellanies."  It  was  published  in  1862,  and  contained  about 
three  hundred  pages  of  prose  writings.  It  was  followed  in  1868 
by  a  volume  of  poems,  and  in  1875  ky  a  small  illustrated  volume 
of  poetry,  entitled  "  The  Fox-Chase."  In  1888  he  published  a 
volume  containing  selections  from  his  most  notable  speeches, 
which  is  filled  with  eloquence  and  poetry. 

Like  his  ancestors,  Mr.  Everhart  was  eminently  patriotic,  and 
during  the  War  of  the  Rebellion  raised  two  companies  of  volun 
teers,  of  each  of  which  he  was  elected  captain,  and  served  in 
Maryland  and  on  the  southern  border  of  Pennsylvania  in  the 
campaigns  of  1863-64.  He  was  elected  to  the  State  Senate  in 
1876,  and  continued  to  be  a  member  of  that  body  until  he  resigned 
to  take  his  seat  in  Congress  in  1883.  He  was  twice  elected  to  Con 
gress,  and  served  with  ability  and  distinction.  For  many  years 
he  was  an  exemplary  member  of  the  Presbyterian  Church,  and 
lived  beloved  and  died  regretted  by  all  who  knew  him.  As  a  poet, 
Mr.  Everhart  had  few  equals,  and  still  fewer,  if  any,  superiors, 
among  the  poets  of  his  native  county. 


THE  ENTERTAINMENT  AT  SIMON'S  HOUSE. 
LUKE  vii.  36-50. 

IDST  those  who  had  taken  their  places 

To  sup  at  the  Pharisee's  board, 
There  entered  a  woman,  with  ointment, 
Who  stooped  at  the  couch  of  the  Lord. 


JAMES    B.   EVERHART. 


Her  tresses  hung  loose  o'er  her  shoulders, 
And  her  eyes  were  cast  to  the  floor  ; 

She  seemed  an  unwelcome  intruder, 
Desolate,  degraded,  and  poor. 

Her  tears  bathed  the  feet  of  the  Master, 

She  wiped  them  with  folds  of  her  hair, 
Bedewed  them  with  kisses  and  ointment, 

And  silently  worshipped  Him  there. 
The  host,  as  a  bigot,  regarded 

Her  beautiful  deed  with  disdain, 
And  deemed,  if  his  guest  were  a  prophet, 

He'd  know  that  her  touch  was  a  stain. 

The  Lord,  in  His  wisdom,  divining 

What  passed  in  the  Pharisee's  heart, 
Declared  how  his  faith  is  deficient 

Who  yields  of  his  love  but  a  part  ; 
For  Simon  but  formally  tendered 

The  debt  that  to  strangers  he  owed, 
Denying  the  tribute  of  homage 

The  woman  so  fondly  bestowed. 

Though  many  her  sins,  He  forgave  her  ; 

Then  marvelled  the  guests  at  the  board  : 
"Who's  this,  that  he  pardons  transgression? 

The  woman  alone  knew  the  Lord. 
Their  cavils  He  checked  by  repeating 

Salvation  again  in  her  ears, 
Who'd  shown  her  belief  and  devotion 

By  lowliness,  sorrow,  and  tears. 


SCONNELLTOWN. 

Sconnelltown,  which  exists  no  longer,  was  in  the  last  century 
a  flourishing  village,  some  two  miles  from  the  Turk's  Head  Tav 
ern,  about  the  only  building  then  standing  where  is  now  the 
borough  of  West  Chester. 

HO  ever  heard  of  Sconnelltown? — 

A  village  long  ago, 
That  on  the  heights  of  Bradford  stood, 

With  Brandvwine  below. 


72  JAMES    B.   EVERHART. 


They  say  it  was  a  thriving  place 

When,  in  its  day  of  palm, 
Cornwallis  lunched  his  army  there, 

Marching  to  Birmingham. 

It  was  there  the  Quakers,  driven 

By  battle's  loud  refrain 
From  their  ancient  house  of  worship, 

Came  near  the  foe  again ; 
And  devoted  to  their  service 

Within  their  lowly  walls, 
They  silently  awaited  him, 

As  Romans  did  the  Gauls. 

'Twas  there  the  weaver  Sconnell  lived, 

Who  chose  this  lofty  site, 
Perhaps  as  classic  founders  did, 

From  birds'  auspicious  flight ; 
And  there  ploughed  the  circling  furrow, 

To  fix  the  metes  and  bounds, 
And  lured  the  venturous  emigrants 

To  settle  on  his  grounds. 

And  for  several  leagues,  at  least, 

There  was  no  greater  town, 
For  the  borough  had  not  risen, 

And  Upland  tended  down. 
The  avenues  perchance  were  few, 

Nor  garnished  by  the  arts, 
Nor  thronged  with  curious  tourists  then, 

Or  trade  with  foreign  parts. 

The  people  were  not  wealthy  then, 

And  made  a  small  display, 
But  doubtless  had  the  passions,  too, 

That  we  have  got  to-day ; 
And  if  their  sphere  was  circumscribed, 

Perhaps  their  pride  was  great, 
And  what  to  us  would  humble  seem, 

Might  seem  to  them  like  state. 

And  they  likely  had  their  classes 

And  arbitrary  ways ; 
The  rich,  who  ever  idle  were, 

The  poor  on  holidays  ; 


JAMES    B.   EVERHART.  73 

And  there  were  certain  crafts  in  vogue, 

That  shared  the  various  toil ; 
Some  plied  their  cunning  handiwork, 

And  some  delved  in  the  soil. 

But  politics  and  fancy  stocks 

Did  ne'er  disturb  their  ease, 
And  they  rarely  heard  of  lawyers, 

Or  courts  of  common  pleas. 
The  grandeur  of  our  cities, 

The  magic  power  of  steam, 
The  lightning  flash  of  telegraphs 

Ne'er  entered  in  their  dream. 

But  where's  the  pleasant  village  now, 

Its  business  and  its  fetes, 
And  its  denizens  and  dwellings, 

And  animated  streets? 
For  near  these  rugged  rocks  it  stood, 

Where  Elecainpane  blooms ; 
Yet  scarce  a  vestige  can  be  found 

Of  tenements  or  tombs. 

No  garden  here  with  weeds  o'ergrown, 

No  loose  and  scattered  rails, 
No  broken  roof  or  tumbling  joist 

The  curious  eye  bewails. 
The  wrecked  and  mossy  timbers  gone, 

And  sunk  the  basement  walls ; 
No  tott'ring  ivied  chimney-stack 

A  ruined  hearth  recalls. 

A  mound  and  ditch,  not  far  apart, 

Round  which  the  harvest  grows, 
Are  all  the  landmarks  of  the  place 

The  antiquary  knows. 
Near  these  the  wheelwright  had  his  bench, 

Or  cobbler  had  his  room, 
Or  the  blacksmith  swung  his  hammer, 

Or  weaver  shook  his  loom. 

Or  there  the  well  of  water  was 

Which  women  went  to  draw, 
Like  her  who  in  Samaria 

The  blessed  Saviour  saw ; 

7 


74  JAMES    B.   EVERHART. 

Or  there  the  awful  pedagogue 
Enforced  his  learned  facts, — 

The  mystery  dark  of  figures, 
The  canons  of  syntax. 

But  eager  search  can't  tell  us  now 

On  what  specific  spot 
The  gayest  mansion  had  its  seat, 

Or  where  the  meanest  cot ; 
Or  what  resorts  were  chosen  once 

For  sport  and  revelry, 
Or  where  the  moonlight  lovers  strolled 

Unto  the  trysting-tree. 

Or  where  the  pious  shepherd  poured 

'Gainst  sin  his  earnest  wrath, 
And  taught  his  little  flock  to  find 

The  straight  and  narrow  path  ; 
Or  where,  at  eve,  the  old  man  sat, 

And  daily  toil  discussed  ; 
Or  whither  went  the  mourning  train, 

When  dust  was  borne  to  dust. 

Or  where  the  post-boy's  winding  horn 

And  horse's  clanking  shoes 
Brought  out  the  gaping  crowd  to  hear 

The  latest  monthly  news ; 
Or  where  the  boist'rous  men  were  kept, 

If  any  there  were  known, 
Who  in  the  rites  of  Bacchus  oft 

Thrust  reason  from  her  throne. 

And  where  are  now  the  populace? 

How  did  they  disappear  ? 
Did  they  slowly  pass  and  perish, 

As  does  the  fading  year  ? 
Or,  like  the  aborigines, 

Who  once  the  soil  possessed, 
Scatter  as  the  autumnal  leaves, 

Or  vanish  in  the  West? 

Or  did  some  grievous  pest  or  fire 
Destroy  them  in  a  breath  ? 

Or  some  ruthless,  grim  invader 
Pursue  them  to  the  death  ? 


JAMES    B.   EVERHART.  75 

Or  did  they  make  their  exodus 

As  captives  from  the  land, 
To  weep,  beneath  their  silent  harps, 

Upon  a  foreign  strand  ? 

For  tradition  ne'er  related 

What  finished  their  career ; 
We  only  know  they  flourished  once, 

And  are  no  longer  here. 
And  many  winter  storms  have  burst 

Upon  this  stony  mount, 
And  many  generations  passed 

To  meet  their  great  account ; 

And  many  summer  birds  have  built 

Amidst  the  bushy  thorn, 
And  many  precious  crops  have  waved 

Where  ripens  yonder  corn ; 
And  many  flowers  have  graced  the  hill, 

Whose  species  died  away, 
And  many  strides  the  world  has  made 

Since  that  forgotten  day. 

The  ploughman  old,  who  turns  the  glebe, 

Would  deem  you  asked  in  jest, 
If  e'er  he  saw  a  hamlet  stand 

Upon  this  lonely  crest. 
His  fathers,  who  are  in  their  graves, 

Its  thrift  remembered  well, 
But  when,  or  how,    it  ceased  to  be, 

They  never  seemed  to  tell. 

Around  a  modern  school-house  now 

The  boys  are  shooting  game, 
Whose  vacant  walls  are  on  its  site, 

And  keep  alive  its  name; 
And  some  locust-  and  some  oak-trees 

There  stretch  their  verdant  limbs, 
And  as  the  evening  breezes  blow, 

Sound  sad  as  fun'ral  hymns. 

As  if  nature  had  a  spirit 

Which  mourns  for  human  woes, 
And  that  her  solitude  prevails 

Where  village  murmurs  rose. 


THOMAS    E.  GARRETT. 


And  you,  who  wander  'cross  the  seas, 

In  search  of  cities  old, 
That  in  their  pride  were  swept  away, 

With  half  their  story  told  ; 

And  that  once  of  wealth  and  splendor 

Had  spread  o'er  earth  their  fame, 
Yet  scarcely  left  a  wreck  behind, 

Or  more  than  empty  name, 
You  here  may  learn  howtshadows  thin 

Mere  mortal  hopes  will  crown  ; 
How  cities,  like  our  lives,  may  have 

The  fate  of  Sconnelltown. 


THOMAS   ELLWOOD  GARRETT. 


THOMAS  ELLWOOD  GARRETT,  son  of  David  and  Ann  (Taylor) 
Garrett,  was  born  in  Willistown  Township,  March  1 6,  1828,  being 
descended  from  a  long  line  of  Quaker  ancestors.  In  1841  his 
father  removed  to  Birmingham  Township,  close  by  Birmingham 
Meeting- House,  where  he  continued  to  reside  until  his  death,  in 
1868.  Soon  after  attaining  his  majority,  Thomas  determined  to 
try  his  fortune  in  the  Great  West,  and,  locating  in  St.  Louis,  he 
became  identified  with  the  press  of  that  city,  and  for  many  years 
was  on  the  editorial  staff  of  the  Republican,  In  1885  he  pub 
lished  "  The  Masque  of  the  Muses,"  a  collection  of  his  poetry  and 
prose  writings.  His  poetry  is  of  a  high  order,  and  ranks  with 
that  of  the  best  authors. 


DISENTHRALLED. 

WANDER  forth  on  the  damp,  cold  ground, 

By  the  shore  of  a  frozen  river  : 
The  earth  and  waters  are  winter-bound, 

I  feel  their  rough  breath  and  shiver 
As  I  draw  my  cloak  of  fur  around, 
And  look  on  the  lifeless  river. 


THOMAS    E.  .GARRETT. 


My  soul  is  bound  as  the  fettered  stream, 
And  more  than  the  sky  'tis  dreary  ; 

A  pall  is  over  my  life's  young  dream, 
And  my  fancy's  wings  are  weary. 

Where  are  the  visions  which  used  to  teem 
When  the  voice  of  hope  was  cheery  ? 

I  sit  me  down  on  the  cushioned  ground, 

Beside  a  shimmering  river  ; 
Spring  comes  with  a  merry  and  lightsome  bound, 

And  the  leaves  and  grasses  quiver, 
And  daisies  and  buttercups  flutter  around 

On  the  marge  of  the  rippling  river. 

The  rustling  hosts,  with  banners  of  green, 

Sly  over  the  hills  are  glancing  ; 
While  marching  down  the  valleys  are  seen 

The  timid  pickets  advancing 
In  armor  bright,  with  velvety  sheen, 

On  breezy  coursers  prancing. 

They  gallop  to  bolted  doors  and  knock  : 
"  Awake  !     Awake  from  your  dreaming  !" 

They  shout  to  the  weird  wind-beaten  stalk, 
With  olden  memories  teeming  : 

The  spirit  within  revives  with  the  shock, 
And  opens  its  windows  gleaming. 

And  all  abroad,  over  valley  and  hill, 

With  touch  and  tone  awaking 
From  icy  grasp  and  passionless  chill, 

And  tattered  garments  flaking, 
The  elfin  army  bounds  with  a  thrill, 

Its  winter  bondage  breaking. 

The  troopers  surround  my  lone  retreat, 

And  my  prisoned  soul  deliver  ; 
They  waltz  with  zephyrs  about  my  feet, 

With  graceful  curve  and  quiver  ; 
With  garlands  they  twine  my  grassy  seat, 

Beside  the  shimmering  river. 

7* 


78  HOWARD    WORCESTER  GILBERT. 

The  air  is  choked  by  the  harmonies 
That  pour  with  the  sunshine's  gushing ; 

And  gala  flags  are  hung  in  the  trees, 
With  blood  of  the  spring-time  flushing, 

And  singing  and  humming,  birds  and  bees 
The  frolicsome  winds  are  hushing. 

The  fairies  knock  at  my  spirit's  door, 
Locked  close  with  pain  and  sadness ; 

I  rise,  renewed  on  the  beautiful  shore, 
Redeemed  from  thrall  of  madness  ; 

The  demons  of  darkness  follow  no  more 
My  soul,  which  walks  in  gladness. 

I  sit  me  down  by  the  river  of  thought, 

In  calm  and  sweet  devotion ; 
With  life  and  vigor  the  spring  has  wrought 

In  the  pulse  of  dead  emotion ; 
By  the  dance  of  the  rippling  waves  I'm  taught 

The  boundless  roll  of  the  ocean. 


HCJWARD   WORCESTER   GILBERT. 


THIS  author  is  a  descendant  of  John  and  Florence  Gilbert,  the 
former  'of  whom  was  imprisoned  in  Launceston  Castle,  Corn 
wall,  England,  in  1663,  for  frequenting  Quaker  conventicles. 
John  Gilbert,  after  his  release,  emigrated  to  Pennsylvania,  and 
settled  at  Byberry,  Philadelphia,  where  the  old  family  mansion  is 
still  occupied  by  descendants  of  his. 

Our  author  is  the  son  of  Amos  and  Sarah  (Kirk)  Gilbert, 
and  was  born  in  York,  Pa.,  from  which  town,  however,  his 
parents  removed  while  he  was  very  young.  He  has  visited 
Europe  twice,  passing,  in  all,  three  years  in  the  Old  World.  Much 
of  his  life  has  been  spent  in  Chester  County,  where  many  of  his 
poems  were  written.  He  is  at  present  a  resident  of  Philadelphia. 

In  1872  he  published  "  Aldornere,  a  Pennsylvania!!  Idyl," 
which,  in  1885,  was  republished,  with  the  addition  of  two  more 
idyls,  forming  with  it  a  sort  of  trilogy,  together  with  a  selection 
from  his  minor  poems. 


HOWARD   WORCESTER  GILBERT.  79 


TO   A   SKYLARK. 

Written  on  seeing  one  restlessly  endeavoring  to  force  its  way 
through  the  bars  of  its  cage,  at  a  bird  fancier's  in  Philadelphia. 

I  GAINST  thy  prison-bars  still  fiercely  beating, 
With  restless  wings,  striving  to  find  thy  way 
Out  from  thy  gloomy  cell,  and  give  thy  greet 
ing, 

Triumphant,  to  the  broad  and  glorious  day, 
In  vain  endeavor  thus  thy  short,  and  fleeting, 
And  cheerless  life  thou  here  wilt  wear  away. 

Poor  alien,  can  it  be  that  thou  art  haunted 
With  visions  such  as  the  sad  exile  sees 

Of  some  deep,  amethystine  gulf  enchanted, 
Far  in  the  bosom  of  the  Pyrenees, 

Where,  by  no  hand  of  mortal  ever  planted, 
Wild  blooms  are  reddening  for  the  golden  bees  ? 

Or  maddening  dreams  of  some  blue  lakelet,  lying 
'Mid  the  white  Alps,  mirroring  but  the  sun, — 

A  star,  or  warbling  skylark  o'er  it  flying 

To  meet  the  morn,  or,  when  the  day  was  done, 

Sinking  unto  his  mate,  and  sweetly  trying 
His  vespers  o'er  his  nest  so  nearly  won  ? 

Or  yet  of  England's  hills  and  of  the  auroral 
And  crimson  beams  flushing  the  orient  through, 

Upon  her  highland-moors  the  rose-tints  floral 
Deepening  on  heath-bells  wet  with  sweetest  dew, 

Longing,  with  longing  vain,  to  join  the  choral 
And  exquisite  chant  far  in  those  skies  of  blue  ? 

Thy  alien  fellow-captives  never  greeting, 
Gathered  in  this  dim  cell,  from  many  lands, 

Thou  vvearest  out  thy  little  life,  and  fleeting, 
Striving  all  vainly  with  thy  prison-bands, 

Beating  against  them  with  a  restless  beating, 

To  gain  that  temple  grand  not  made  with  hands  ! 


8O  HOWARD   WORCESTER  GILBERT. 


TO   THE   TRAILING   ARBUTUS. 

HE  mellow  sunshine  floweth  softly  down, 

Golden  and  wide,  over  these  billowy  swells, 
And  on  their  bare  and  quiet  woods  of  brown  ; 

And  over  all,  and  in  the  distant  dells, 
The  blue  haze  broods  in  silence.    Wandering  here 
In  the  deep  stillness  of  this  April  day, 

Sweet  flower,  once  more 
I  find  thee,  trailing  all  thy  rosy  bells 
Among  the  pale-brown  leaves  of  the  last  year. 

Yet  once  again,  now,  in  this  genial  time, 

I  feel  the  warm  air  play 
Over  my  brow  as  it  was  wont  of  yore ; — 
It  lingers  for  thy  gift  of  fragrance  near, 

Then  glides  away, 

Seeming  a  truant  of  some  sunnier  clime 
That  on  us  wide  hath  oped  its  golden  door. 

Of  all  thy  sisters  of  the  meadows  far 
Widening  out  under  the  vernal  sun, 

Or  in  the  woods  and  fields  that  dwellers  are, 
There  is  not  one — 

Not  e'en  the  low  and  downy  wind-flower  blue — 
That  overjoys  the  heart  with  beauty  more, 

Or  sends  a  sweeter  thrill  the  spirit  through, 
Than  thou.     Thy  name  doth  ever  unto  me 
Bring  thoughts  of  early  beauty  silently, — 

Of  the  sweet  spring-time  when,  the  winter  past, 

The  flowers  unfold  at  last. 


HYMN   AT   THE   GRAVE. 

HE  angel  mild,  who  ruleth  all, 

Came  with  his  cooling  draught  divine, 

And  bearing  in  his  hand  the  pall, 
Gave  of  release  the  final  sign. 

Oh,  gentle  Angel,  named  of  Death, 
He  whom  thy  hand  hath  once  caressed 

Yields  gladly  in  thine  arms  his  breath, 
Thenceforth  is  numbered  with  the  blest. 


HOWARD    WORCESTER  GILBERT.  8 1 


To  our  beloved  thou  didst  say, 
"Behold  I  come  to  bring  release, 

O  sorrowing  mortal  of  a  day, 
And  lead  into  eternal  peace  !" 

And  whether,  with  thy  brother  Sleep, 
Thou  borest  then  his  spirit  bland 

In  soothing  slumber,  sweet  and  deep, 
Into  a  distant  native  land, — 

We  know  not.  But  his  form  we  now 
Lay  in  its  kindred  earth  to  rest, 

A  changeless  calm  upon  his  brow, 
And  endless  peace  within  his  breast. 

And  farther  than  the  shadowy  bourne 
No  mortal  of  his  fate  may  tell,- — 

With  them  that  neither  joy  nor  mourn, 
Or  in  the  meads  of  asphodel. 

But  yet  we  deem  'tis  well  with  him, 
Or  on  the  fair  Elysian  plain, 

Or  'mid  Lethean  shadows  dim, 
No  more,  for  aye,  to  wake  again. 


PRELUDE   AND   LIBERTY  SONG. 

FROM  "WYNDHAM,  A  PENNSYLVANIAN  IDYL." 

ES,  'twas  the  spring,  and  the  gray  willow  now 
And    the    red  -  flowering    maple    bloomed 
again, — 

The  alder  hung  its  tassels  o'er  the  brook, 
Freed  from  its  thrall.     The  sunshine's  subtle  gold 
Melted  into  my  veins ;  the  April  air 
Wrought  in  my  veins  once  more  its  wonted  thrill. 
The  great  rose-window  of  the  glowing  east 
Shone  gloriously  with  its  auroral  hues, 
A  grand  and  splendid  oriel,  fitting  well 
For  the  great  temple  of  the  universe  ! 
On  such  a  morn  I  sang  this  joyous  song — • 
This  joyous  song  of  life  and  liberty : 


82  HOWARD   WORCESTER  GILBERT. 


I  am  the  dauntless  spirit  brave 

That  never  yet  the  gyve  has  worn  ; 

I  rend  the  bonds  that  bind  the  slave, 
But  never  yet  his  chain  have  borne. 

I  burst  the  iron  prison-bars, 

The  threefold  walls  I  raze  amain  ; 

I  greet  the  sky,  the  sun,  the  stars, — 
Exult  again  and  yet  again. 

Who  tread  the  mount  with  footstep  sure, 
With  them  I  dwell  in  clearer  light ; 

I  haunt  the  heathery  mountain-moor 
And  mountain-mere  by  day  and  night ; 

But  dwell  not  less  with  them  who  flee, 
O'erpowered,  from  enslaved  lands, 

And  find  a  refuge  by  the  sea, 

'Mid  billows,  mists,  and  shifting  sands,- 

Whose  pulses  rhyme  with  chainless  flow 
Of  mountain  winds  with  breezy  swell,— 

With  the  wild  waves  that  come  and  go, — 
With  these,  with  these,  I  gladly  dwell. 

My  forehead  fair  no  crown  beseems 
But  crown  of  amaranth  or  stars, — 

No  light  but  dawn  or  noonday  beams ; 
No  twilight  dim  my  beauty  mars 

For  I  am  of  the  glorious  morn — 
The  herald  that  foretells  the  day ; 

My  youth  no  time  has  ever  worn — 
I  go  before,  I  lead  the  way. 

My  spirit  free  they  strive  in  vain 
To  fetter  with  the  bond  or  gyve ; 

I  smile  with  high  and  calm  disdain 
On  all  who  with  that  striving  strive. 

For  my  eternal  freedom  still 

With  deathless  love  the  nations  long ; 
For  my  unconquerable  will, 

My  matchless  beauty,  fair  and  strong. 


WILLIAM   S.  GRAHAM.  83 

My  voice  has  led,  on  every  shore, 

The  battles  of  the  mighty  past, 
And  now  again  is  heard  once  more 

In  this  defiant  bugle-blast. 


WILLIAM   S.   GRAHAM. 


WILLIAM  SLOAN  GRAHAM,  son  of  Rev.  Robert  and  Ann  (Ross) 
Graham,  was  born  near  New  London,  April  23,  1818,  and  died 
at  Harrisburg,  Pa.,  October  3,  1847.  His  father  was  for  many 
years  pastor  of  the  Presbyterian  Church  at  New  London,  and  was 
eminent  for  his  piety  and  the  zeal  he  manifested  in  his  Master's 
cause,  much  of  which  seems  to  have  been  inherited  by  his  son. 
W.  S.  Graham  was  educated  at  New  London  Academy,  of  which 
his  father  was  principal,  and  at  Delaware  College,  where  he  grad 
uated  in  1836.  Nearly  all  his  life  subsequent  to  his  graduation 
was  spent  in  teaching,  in  which  he  was  very  successful.  He 
wrote  poetry  at  an  early  age,  and  soon  gave  evidence  of  great 
poetic  ability,  though  he  only  wrote  for  his  own  amusement  and 
the  gratification  of  his  friends.  After  his  death  his  poems  were 
collected  by  his  wife,  and,  in  connection  with  a  sketch  of  his  life, 
edited  by  Professor  George  Allen,  were  published  in  Philadelphia 
in  1849. 


BEAR  ON. 

(iND  nature  hath  a  sympathizing  tone 

For   every   mood    of  sympathizing  joy  or 

pain. 

Sad  hearts  from  humblest  flower  may  cour 
age  gain, 

Daring  the  storm  with  smiling  brow  alone. 
The  brave  old  oak,  around  whose  head  have  blown 
A  hundred  winters,  still  maintains  his  place ; 
The  hoary  cliff  uprears  his  storm-scarred  face, 
Though  round  his  base  the  wrecks  of  time  are  strown  j 
The  stars  shine  on  as  at  their  birth  they  shone ; 

The  glorious  sun  runs  his  immortal  race. 
Faint  spirit,  fyowed  'neath. life's  o'erburdening  ills, 

Lift  up  thine  eye  to  heaven's  eternal  scope  ! 
Look  out  upon  the  everlasting  hills, 

And  see  a  firm  foundation  still  for  hope  ! 


84  REV.  LEWIS    R.  HARLEY. 


REJOICE. 

I  HE  world  is  full  of  joy.    The  sweet  rose  flings 
Her  fragrance  out  to  invite  the  zephyr's  kiss  ; 
The  morning  lark,  in  wantonness  of  bliss, 
To  meet  the  sun  with  song  of  welcome  springs  ; 
The  little  brook  to  her  own  motion  sings ; 
The  storm  peals  out ;  down  comes  the  dancing  rain  ; 
The  mountain  stream  leaps  shouting  to  the  plain, 
And  with  high  glee  the  echoing  valley  rings ; 
The  wild  wind  whistles  in  his  desert  caves ; 

The  thick  clouds  ride  triumphant  down  the  sky ; 
The  old  green  wood  his  lusty  branches  waves ; 
Huge  ocean  shakes  his  foamy  crest  on  high  ; 
Earth  springs  exulting  in  her  fadeless  prime, 
And  the  glad  sun  rolls  on  his  course  sublime. 


REV.   LEWIS   R.   HARLEY. 


REV.  LEWIS  R.  HARLEY,  son  of  Harrison  and  Sue  Harley, 
was  born  in  North  Coventry  Township,  August  16,  1864.  His 
ancestors  on  his  father's  side  were  descendants  of  John  Edward 
and  Richard  Harley,  who  figured  prominently  in  British  poli 
tics  during  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne.  Mr.  Harley  received  his 
education  at  the  Hill  Collegiate  Institute,  Pottstown,  and  the  West 
Chester  Normal  School.  When  seventeen  years  old  he  com 
menced  teaching  school  in  Chester  County,  and  continued  teach 
ing  during  the  ensuing  four  years,  when  he  entered  the  ministry 
of  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church,  and  was  stationed  at  Howell- 
ville,  Delaware  County,  in  1886,  where  he  remained  two  years, 
when  he  severed  his  connection  with  the  conference  in  order  to 
engage  in  literary  work.  He  is  a  fine  classical  scholar,  an  earnest 
and  eloquent  preacher,  and  a  popular  lecturer.  His  poetical  pro 
clivities  manifested  themselves  in  childhood,  and  were  no  doubt 
augmented  by  the  picturesque  scenery  of  the  romantic  valley  of 
the  Schuylkill  in  which  he  was  reared.  When  eleven  years  of 
age  he  became  a  regular  contributor  to  the  Pottstown  Ledger,  and 
has  ever  since  been  noted  as  a  ready  and  fluent  writer.  He  was 
married  to  Miss  Ravilla  Yarnall,  of  Edgemont,  Delaware  County, 
in  March,  1888. 


REV.  LEWIS    R.  HARLEY.  85 


CONTEMPLATION. 

STAND  to-night  amidst  the  hallowed  scenes 

That,time  has  rendered  sacred  with  its  years, 
And  ponder  over  joys  that  spring  and  flow, 

And  sorrows  that  are  bathed  in  bitter  tears ; 
And  in  my  mind  sweet  holy  thoughts  loom  up 

That  thrill  my  soul  as  nectar  did  of  old, 
And  Reverie,  that  gentle  muse,  now  leads 
Me  to  the  gates  of  pure  eternal  gold. 

I  tire  of  earthly  things  and  long  to  tread 

The  glowing  paths  of  never-fading  truth, 
Where  blossoms  fill  the  air  with  sweet  perfumes, 

And  all  is  happy  in  unchanging  youth; 
Where  barks  of  pleasure,  on  the  silver  streams, 

Sail  in  their  voyage  on  the  crested  tide, 
And  move  upon  the  bosom  of  the  deep, 

Like  airy  vessels  on  the  ocean  wide. 

The  gems  of  earth  have  lost  their  charm  for  me, 

Their  transient  beauty  all  has  fled  away, 
And  left  me  in  a  dark  and  dismal  void, 

Longing  to  see  the  everlasting  day. 
The  wonders  of  old  Egypt's  mighty  power, 

And  Babylon,  where  pride  and  grandeur  flowed, 
And  Zion,  with  her  daughters  sweet  and  fail, 

And  all  her  temples  that  with  lustre  glowed. 

Parnassus,  with  its  haunted,  cooling  rills, 

Where  gods  abode  and  oracles  were  read  ; 
Thermopylae,  where  ancient  glory  clings 

Above  the  tombs  where  sleep  her  soldier  dead  ; 
.Old  Cretan's  shores  and  Ceylon's  sunny  strands, 

Where  balmy  zephyrs  fan  the  cheek  of  care, 
And  fruits  and  spices  from  the  southern  climes 

Adorn  the  breezes  with  a  fragrance  rare. 

Great  Rome,  enthroned  upon  her  seven  hills, 
And  making  tremble  all  the  earth  with  fear, 

Now  crumbled  with  the  fallen  fanes  of  time, 
And  lying  dead  upon  the  ghastly  bier ; 


86  REV.  LEWIS    R.  HARLEY. 


The  castled  Rhine,  where  legends  found  their  source, 
And  o'er  the  mountains  grim  the  Saxon  trod  ; 

The  monasteries,  where  men  secluded  lived, 
To  seek  in  reverence  Almighty  God. 

The  thrones,  where  kings  in  power  and  glory  sit ; 

The  palaces,  where  joys  like  rivers  stream  ; 
The  pageantry  that  decks  the  high  estate, 

Where  beauty  dazzles  with  a  happy  gleam  ; 
The  welcome  bowers,  where  man  and  maiden  meet, 

And  love's  first  touch  with  rapture  fills  the  breast ; 
The  cooling  shade,  where  age  in  silence  creeps, 

Upon  the  couch  of  earth  to  sweetly  rest. 

All  these  are  but  as  vague  and  empty  dreams, 

When  contemplation  fills  the  willing  mind, 
And  like  a  siren  leads  us  to  her  realm, 

Our  senses  there  in  fetters  strong  to  bind. 
We  yield  obedience  to  her  soothing  voice, 

And  then  her  treasures,  long  in  gloom  concealed, 
She  opens  to  our  wondering,  yearning  gaze, 

And  priceless  gems  and  jewels  are  revealed. 

I  ask,  What  means  the  mystery  of  life, 

Its  joys  and  sorrows  and  its  groaning  pains, 
Its  clouds  and  sunshine  and  its  tempests  strong, 

Its  poverty,  its  losses  and  its  gains  ? 
Go  to  the  muses  and  implore  their  aid, 

Go  to  Dodona's  holy,  secret  shrine, 
And  Delphi's  deities  in  faith  implore, — 

Go  to  the  perfect  light  of  truth  divine. 

In  all,  the  mystery  of  life  is  found  ; 

We  fathom,  but  the  depth  we  cannot  reach ; 
We  look  aloft  beyond  the  friendly  stars  ; 

Its  awful  height  no  human  mind  can  teach. 
Beyond  the  narrow  gulf  of  fleeting  time 

We  read  this  lesson  on  the  shining  scroll : 
Faith  builds  its  bridge  across  the  dark  abyss, 

And  finds  a  refuge  for  the  parting  soul. 

The  sands  of  time  are  flowing  by  the  hour. 

With  us  what  is  the  mystery  of  life  ? 
Is  it  a  couch  of  ease  where  we  recline, 

Or  is  it  toil  and  angry  battle-strife? 


REV.  LEWIS   R.  HARLEY.  S/ 

Each  age  has  had  its  share,  each  race  its  part, 
Each  generation  played  upon  the  stage, 

In  childhood,  manhood,  age,  and  solemn  death, 
In  life's  great  book  we  all  must  add  a  page. 

The  future  years  will  move  with  solemn  march, 

And  on  our  brow  will  fall  the  frosts  of  time  ; 
The  melodies  of  earth  will  lose  their  charms, 

And  we  will  long  for  music  more  sublime. 
We  near  the  narrow  tomb  with  feeble  step ; 

Its  chambers  dim  we  tread  with  reverent  fear ; 
It  is  a  dark,  a  lonely,  dreamy  realm, 

But  strong  and  holy  angels  linger  near. 

We  shall  not  ever  sleep,  but  by  and  by 

The  waking  hour  will  bid  us  all  to  rise, 
And  we  will  change  the  garments  of  the  grave, 

And  mount  to  mansions  far  beyond  the  skies. 
Kind  spring  will  touch  the  winter  of  the  tomb, 

Its  icy  chains  will  melt  at  last  away ; 
The  fragrant  blossoms  from  the  bud  will  break, 

Enkindled  with  the  warm,  celestial  ray. 

Why  then,  oh,  fragile  man,  wilt  thou  content 

To  live  for  fading  earthly  good  alone, 
When  heaven's  blissful  strains  .are  calling  thee 

With  warmest  rapture  and  celestial  tone? 
This  changing  realm  is  not  thine  endless  home; 

It  will  at  last  grow  old  in  numbered  years, 
And  thou,  in  disappointed  hopes,  will  shed 

Upon  its  gloomy  bier  sad,  bitter  tears. 


MOONLIGHT   BY  THE   SEA. 

HEN  evening's  twilight  curtains  fell, 

Along  the  surging  sea, 
And  shadows  dark  in  silence  crept 

Across  the  rolling  lea,         . 
I  stood  beside  the  ocean  strand, 

While  night  her  glories  spread, 
To  view  the  moonlight  on  the  sea, 

In  all  its  lustre  shed. 


88  REV.  LEWIS   R.  HARLEY. 

The  friendly  orb  her  glowing  rays 

Diffused  the  scene  around, 
And  lit  the  darkest  aisles  of  earth 

With  rapture  so  profound  ; 
Her  silver  beams  like  rivers  flowed 

In  streams  of  pure  delight, 
That  filled  my  soul  with  ecstasy 

And  broke  the  gloom  of  night. 

The  boundless  skies  were  beautiful; 

No  clouds  were  seen  in  view ; 
The  watchful  stars,  like  sentinels, 

Were  shining  forth  so  true ; 
The  sleeping  earth  in  peace  reposed 

Upon  the  couch  of  rest, 
And  slumbered  in  forgetfulness 

On  nature's  loving  breast. 

Kind  Luna  poured  upon  the  sea 

Her  gems  and  jewels  rare ; 
The  waves  were  decked  with  diamonds 

That  glowed  so  rich  and  fair ; 
The  crests  were  crowned  with  coronets 

Of  rubies  and  of  gold  ; 
The  breakers  flung  upon  the  shores 

The  secret  wealth  of  old. 

The  waves  were  tuned  to  melodies 

Of  happy  by-gone  days ; 
Their  music  rose  in  anthems  sweet. 

Like  vesper  songs  of  praise, — 
Like  some  huge  organ,  wafting  forth 

Its  harmonies  of  song, 
And  swelling  in  its  symphonies, 

To  charm  the  living  throng. 

Oh,  holy  night  along  the  sea  ! 

Oh,  soul-inspiring  hour  ! 
More  beautiful  than  happy  day, 

Or  any  shaded  bower  ; 
A  blest  retreat  of  solitude, 

To  visit  in  our  woe, 
And  meditate  in  reverie, 

While  surges  ebb  and  flow. 


THE    RAINES    FAMILY.  89 

Oh,  silver  orb,  shed  forth  thy  rays 

Upon  the  restless  waves  ! 
Oh,  music  sweet,  upon  the  deep, 

Fill  all  the  darkest  caves  ! 
Oh,  strains  sublime,  beside  the  sea, 

Lead  me  to  scenes  above, 
Where  seas  no  more  shall  ever  surge, 

And  all  is  peace  and  love. 


THE   HAINES   FAMILY. 


TOWNSEND    HAINES. 

JUDGE  TOWNSEND  HAINES  was  born  in  West  Chester,  July  7, 
1792.  He  was  educated  at  the  common  schools  and  at  the  school 
of  Enoch  Lewis.  He  studied  law  in  the  office  of  Judge  Isaac 
Darlington,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1818.  He  took  an 
active  part  in  politics,  and  was  elected  to  the  Legislature  in  1826, 
and  re-elected  for  the  following  term.  He  was  a  Whig  in  politics, 
and  in  1838  edited  a  political  journal  which  was  conducted  in  the 
interest  of  that  party.  He  took  an  active  part  in  the  Presidential 
campaign  of  1844,  and  in  1848  was  appointed  Secretary  of  State 
by  Governor  Johnston,  but  continued  to  practise  in  the  Chester 
County  courts.  He  was  appointed  Register  of  the  United  States 
Treasury  by  President  Taylor  in  1850,  and  served  for  eighteen 
months,  and  until  he  was  elected  judge  of  the  courts  of  Chester 
County.  In  the  twenty  seventh  year  of  his  age  he  married  Anna 
Maria  Derrick,  who  died  about  four  years  after  the  expiration  of 
his  term  as  judge.  He  died  in  West  Chester  in  October,  1865. 

His  poems  were  written  for  recreation,  and  were  published  with 
out  revision.  They  are  characterized  by  simplicity  and  kindly 
feeling,  and  are  well  set  with  gems  of  beautiful  imagery. 


WILLIAM   T.   HAINES. 

WILLIAM  TILGHMAN  HAINES,  son  of  Judge  Haines,  was  born 
in  West  Chester,  May  8,  1833.  He  studied  law  with  Hon.  Wil 
liam  Darlington  and  Joseph  Hemphill,  Esq.,  and  was  admitted  to 
the  West  Chester  bar,  where  he  continued  to  practise  until  1868, 
when  he  removed  to  Pittsburg  and  formed  a  partnership  with 
Madison  Stoner,  Esq.,  a  lawyer  of  that  city.  Shortly  after  re 
moving  to  Pittsburg  he  assumed  the  editorship  of  the  Pittsburg 

8* 


9O  MARY    D.  HAINES. 


Gazette,  and  took  a  leading  part  in  the  campaign  of  1 868.  He 
was  appointed  by  President  Grant  United  States  Commissioner  of 
Customs  for  the  District  of  Columbia,  and  held  the  office  three 
years,  when  he  returned  to  West  Chester  and  resumed  the  prac 
tice  of  the  law,  which  he  continued  until  the  time  of  his  death, 
February  2,  1884.  Early  in  the  War  of  the  Rebellion  he  was  ap 
pointed  quartermaster  of  the  One  Hundred  and  Twenty-fourth 
Regiment  of  Infantry,  but  the  effects  of  a  sunstroke  soon  obliged 
him  to  resign.  In  1860  he  compiled  the  Township  and  Local  Laws 
of  the  State  of  Pennsylvania,  which  is  a  work  of  great  value  re 
garding  the  duties  of  justices  of  the  peace  and  other  township 
officers.  He  was  an  expert  and  skilful  botanist,  and  made  a 
specialty  of  the  study  of  the  native  fungi  of  this  country,  upon 
which  he  was  regarded  as  an  authority.  October  3,  1860,  he  mar 
ried  Miss  Mary  E.  Denny,  daughter  of  the  late  John  L.  Denny, 
a  distinguished  lawyer  of  West  Chester,  who  still  survives. 

Mr.  Haines  possessed  much  poetical  ability,  which,  had  he  cul 
tivated  it,  would  have  enabled  him  to  have  taken  rank  with  the 
most  illustrious  poets  of  this  country.  He  inherited  his  poetical 
talents  from  his  father,  and  seems  to  have  transmitted  them  to  his 
daughter  Mary,  who,  though  only  thirteen  years  old,  has  written 
a  number  of  fine  poems,  of  which  we  subjoin  the  following. 


MARY   DENNY   HAINES. 

THE   TWILIGHT   HOUR. 

WHAT  is  more  lovely  than  the  twilight  hour, 
The  hour  of  beauty,  peace,  and  quiet  rest, 

The  witching  hour,  when  all  the  world  is  still, 
And  all  our  thoughts  are  of  the  very  best  ? 

When  e'en  the  little  bird  has  hushed  its  song, 
Awed  into  silence  at  the  beauty  grand, 

When  sunset  piles  its  glorious  clouds  on  high, 

And  shows  the  wonders  made  by  God's  own  hand. 

When  half  the  sky  is  of  a  golden  glow, 

The  other  half  shows  coming  night, 
While  the  young  moon  is  shyly  peeping  forth, 

Bringing  her  sweet  beauty  into  sight. 

When  nature  rests  content  and  all  is  hushed, 
And  the  bright  stars  come  peeping  one  by  one, 

And  lower,  lower  still,  till  it  is  gone, 

Fades  the  bright  glory  of  the  setting  sun. 

And  all  this  beauty  is  a  gift 

To  us  poor  mortals  from  God's  dear  hand, — 
The  moon,  the  coming  night,  the  setting  sun, 

Touching  with  ruby  red  the  awed  and  silent  land. 


TOWNSEND   HAINES.  9! 


For  this  great  gift  we  thank  Thee,  Lord  of  all, 
And  pray  that  some  day,  when  our  life  is  done, 

We'll  stand  beside  Thee  and  will  see 

A  glory  far  more  brilliant  than  the  setting  sun. 


TOWNSEND   HAINES. 

THE   MOUNTAIN   STREAM. 

HARP  of  the  hills,  whose  strings  untiring  play, 
Endless  of  song,  in  numbers  all  thine  own, 
As  onward  still  thy  murmuring  waters  stray, 
Leaping  with  childish  sport  from  stone  to 

stone, — 
There,  smooth  and  calm  as  infant's  sleeping  hour, 

Here,  ruffled  like  the  furrowed  brow  of  care, 
And  hurrying  onward  still,  by  shrub  and  flower, 
Nor  years  nor  age  thy  melody  impair. 

Dear  are  thy  haunts,  sweet  solitary  stream ; 

Harp  of  the  teeming  wood  and  tangled  vine, 
As  memory  waketh  from  their  mystic  dream 

Pageants  of  by-gone  years ;  a  shadowy  line, 
Passing  in  voiceless  silence ;  there  to  scan, 

In  the  dim  vision,  dusky  warriors  rise, 
Nameless,  yet  proud, — the  fearless,  untamed  man, 

Enjoying  nature's  tranquil  paradise  ; 

Safe  from  the  footprints  of  the  Saxon  horde ; 

Safofrom  that  baneful  neighborhood,  his  crime ; 
There,  threatened  with  no  conquest-reeking  sword, 

On  thy  green  banks,  o'er  thy  wild  hills  to  climb. 
Ah,  why  should  man,  delusion's  witless  clown, 

Ne'er  learn  the  changeful  nature  of  his  fate? 
Now  loved,  despised,  exalted, — now  cast  down 

So  low  that  fiends  might  satiate  with  hate. 

Peace  reigns,  but  hark  !  the  clash  of  steel — the  strife, 
A  struggle — pools  of  blood — th'  expiring  cry, — 

Speak  words  of  terror.     Gambling  life  for  life, 
Christian  and  savage,  priest  and  pagan  die ; 


92  TOWNSEND    HAINES. 

Harp  of  the  hill,  a  stranger  treads  thy  shore ; 

A  nation's  lost.     Yet  thou,  unchangeable, 
Lonely  thy  song  yet  tells,  while  mine  is  o'er. 

Lyre  of  the  untiring  string,  farewell, — farewell. 


BOB   FLETCHER. 

ONCE  knew  a  ploughman,  Bob  Fletcher  his 

name, 
Who  was  old,  and  was  ugly,  and  so  was  his 

dame  ; 

Yet  they  lived  quite  contented,  and  free  from  all  strife, 
Bob  Fletcher,  the  ploughman,  and  Judy,  his  wife. 

As  the  morn  streak'd  the  east,  and  the  night  fled  away, 
They  would  rise  up  to  labor,  refreshed  for  the  day; 
The  song  of  the  lark,  as  it  rose  on  the  gale, 
Found  Bob  at  the  plough  and  his  wife  at  the  pail. 

A  neat  little  cottage,  in  front  of  a  grove, 

Where  in  youth  they  first  gave  their  young  hearts  up 

to  love, 

Was  the  solace  of  age,  and  to  them  doubly  dear, 
As  it  called  up  the  past  with  a  smile  or  a  tear. 

Each  tree  had  its  thought,  and  the  vow  could  impart 
That  mingled  in  youth  the  warm  wish  of  the  heart ; 
The  thorn  was  still  there,  and  the  blossoms  it  bore, 
And  the  song  from  its  top  seemed  the  same  as  before. 

When  the  curtain  of  night  over  nature  was  spread, 
And  Bob  had  returned  from  his  plough  to  his  shed, 
Like  the  dove  on  her  nest  he  reposed  from  all  care, 
If  his  wife  and  his  youngsters,  contented,  were  there. 

I  have  passed  by  his  door  when  the  evening  was  gray, 
And  the  hill  and  the  landscape  were  fading  away, 
And  have  heard  from  the  cottage,  with  grateful  surprise, 
The  voice  of  thanksgiving,  like  incense,  arise. 

And  I  thought  on  the  proud,  who  would  look  down 

with  scorn 

On  the  neat  little  cottage,  the  grove,  and  the  thorn, 
And  felt  that  the  riches  and  follies  of  life 
Were  dross  to  contentment,  with  Bob  and  his  wife. 


WILLIAM    T.  HAINES.  93 

WILLIAM   T.   HAINES. 

A  BIRTHDAY   TRIBUTE. 

VER  the  past  let  a  veil  be  spread  ; 

Its  joys  and  sorrows  alike  have  fled. 

Its  countless  steps,  as  I've  plodded  along, 

Give  back  no  echo.     Childhood's  song 
Is  a  nursery  myth.     Friends  now  seem 
Figments  shadowy,  seen  in  a  dream, 
And  I  scarce  believe  it,  would  you,  pray, 
That  sixty-two  years  have  passed  away? 

Can  it  be  true  I  am  growing  old  ? 
Not  a  line  in  my  face  has  the  secret  told  ; 
Not  a  pulse-throb  beats  with  a  slower  bound, 
Not  a  joy  of  my  heart  that  is  less  profound ; 
Not  a  gem  of  the  forest,  earth,  or  sea, 
But  grants  in  its  beauty  a  joy  to  me 
As  bright  as  when  in  my  life  there  grew 
No  dream  of  its  autumn  of  sixty-two. 

Good-by,  old  past !     I  turn  away, 
Half  glad,  half  sad,  to  my  life  to-day. 
For  a  woman's  heart  there  is  plenty  to  do, 
If  it  beats  with  an  impulse  kind  and  true ; 
Work  that  carries  a  cross,  we're  told, 
That  finds  return  of  an  hundred-fold ; 
And  just  such  work  as  none  can  do 
Save  a  woman  like  me,  of  sixty-two. 

Not  for  the  world  would  I  wander  back 
Along  life's  stream.     Though  every  track 
Of  my  childhood's  feet,  on  its  soft  green  sod, 
Shows  plainly  the  path  that  I  have  trod  ; 
Though  every  step  that  I  journeyed  on 
Was  a  promise  of  health  and  beauty  won, 
I'd  feel  in  my  heart  'twas  a  loss,  not  a  gain, 
To  start  at  the  spring-time  of  life  again  ; 
For  if  I  did  wish  it,  and  could  it  come  true, 
I  would  soon  be  again — as  I  am — sixty-two. 


94  WILLIAM    T.  HAINES. 


THE   DYING  YEAR. 

'ER  the  old  year,  gently  dying, 
The  wintry  winds  are  sighing 

Soft  and  low ; 

While  the  noise  of  busy  feet 
Comes  muffled  from  the  street 

By  the  snow. 

Trees  in  icy  mail  arrayed, 
Stretching  out  in  lengthened  shade, 

Huge  and  tall, 

Stand  like  sentinels  on  guard, 
Keeping  grim  and  silent  ward 

Over  all ; 

While  through  the  crisp,  cold  air, 
Ever  ringing  everywhere 

With  ceaseless  tongue, 
The  silver  chime  of  bells 
To  his  dying  ear  foretells 

His  requiem  rung ; 

And  o'er  his  memory  dim 
There  comes  a  dream  to  him 

Of  other  days, 

When  he  was  young  and  strong, 
Feted  in  toast  and  song, 

And  words  of  praise  ; 

When  the  crown  that  he  has  worn 
Was  from  another  torn, 

Another  dead ; 

While  songs  of  praise  were  sung, 
And  merry  chimes  were  rung, 

Placed  on  his  head. 

But  now,  when  old  and  weak, 
Some  comfort  he  would  seek 

From  days  of  yore, 
He  learns  that  restless  life, 
Earnest  in  battle  strife, 

Looks  before. 


WILLIAM   T.  HAINES.  95 

And  as  the  music  swells 
From  the  great  and  little  bells 

O'er  the  town, 
He  knows,  while  lying  there, 
Of  his  death  none  think  or  care 

Of  all  around. 

And  now  the  sunset  gleams, 
With  its  slanting,  yellow  beams, 

Over  all ; 

And  night,  with  silent  tread, 
Weaves  its  covering  for  the  dead, — 

A  sable  pall. 

And  in  the  morning  light 

A  young  heart,  fresh  and  bright 

As  the  day, 

Will  start  a  new  career, 
Writing  o'er  the  dead  old  year, 

"  Passed  away." 


GOD'S   PROVIDENCE. 

EN  live  for  something ; 
Ere  their  birth,  God  knows  the  record. 
Pressed  in  the  mother's  arms,  the  babe 
Lies  slumbering  on  the  loving  breast, 
Peaceful  and  happy.     But  the  life 
That  lies  before  it,  the  long  road 
It  yet  must  journey,  has  been  marked. 
Not  a  flower  blooms  on  the  pathway 
But  from  seed  sown  long  ere  its  cry 
Rose  weak  and  feeble. 
Not  a  thorn  to  wound  and  torture, 
But  the  very  spot  along  the  way 
Is  singled  out,  just  where  the  flesh 
Shall  quiver  and  the  heart  shall  ache. 
There  is  no  chance  in  nature.     The 
Warm  kisses  of  a  mother's  love, 


ISABELLA    P.   HUSTON. 


Her  prayers,  her  hopes,  her  tears, 

Her  faith  strong  in  maternity, 

Nothing  that  she  may  say  or  do, 

Will  set  aside  the  edict. 

No  fatalism  this,  where  sin 

Lies  covered  with  the  will  of  God  ; 

He  doeth  best  in  everything. 

The  way  is  known,  the  path  marked  out, 

The  flowers  and  thorns  along  the  road, 

The  birth,  the  life,  the  death,  the  end, 

All,  were  known  from  the  beginning, 

And  the  life  is  just  as  certain 

As  that  the  end  is  death. 


ISABELLA   P.    HUSTON. 


ISABELLA  PENNOCK  HUSTON,  daughter  of  Dr.  Charles  and  Re 
becca  W.  Lukens,  was  born  at  Brandy  wine  Mansion,  belonging  to  the 
iron-works  of  that  name,  November  30,  1822.  The  first  boiler 
plate  made  in  the  United  States  was  rolled  at  this  mill.  It  was 
situated  in  the  township  then  known  as  East  Cain,  now  called 
Valley.  The  name  of  the  mill  has  been  changed  to  Lukens  Iron- 
Works,  in  compliment  to  her  mother,  who  was  a  successful  iron 
merchant  for  many  years  after  her  husband's  death.  Mrs.  Lukens 
was  a  woman  of  superior  intellect,  and  conducted  the  iron  busi 
ness  with  marked  ability  and  success,  and  amid  many  discourage 
ments  made  a  fortune  for  herself  and  family.  She  was  possessed 
of  fine  literary  taste,  and  stimulated  the  literary  tendencies  of  her 
daughter  by  encouraging  her  to  copy  her  compositions  into  a 
blank-book,  which  she  gave  her  for  that  purpose  when  she  was 
quite  young.  Isabella  was  educated  at  Price's  School,  West 
Chester,  and  at  Friend's  Select  School  in  Philadelphia.  She  was 
married,  April  27,  1848,  to  Dr.  Charles  Huston,  of  Philadelphia, 
in  which  city  they  resided  the  first  year  of  their  married  life ; 
afterwards  they  removed  to  her  native  place,  near  which  they  have 
since  resided.  Mrs.  Huston  wrote  poetry  at  an  early  age.  Some 
of  her  poems  were  published  in  the  Chester  County  journals,  but 
most  of  her  poetical  effusions  are  of  a  private  and  personal  nature, 
and  have  not  been  published.  A  volume  of  this  character  was 
printed  in  1873  for  circulation  among  her  friends.  She  also  pub 
lished  a  small  volume  descriptive  of  a  tour  in  Europe,  a  year  or 
two  before  her  death.  She  died  at  New  Lenox,  Mass.,  August 
5,  1889. 


ISABELLA    P.   HUSTON.  97 


THE  WHITE   ALTHAEA   FLOWER. 

"  Whosoever  therefore  shall  humble  himself  as  this  little  child, 
the  same  is  greatest  in  the  kingdom  of  Heaven." 

T  has  not  much  to  charm  the  eye, 

This  simple,  rustic  flower, 
Nor  rose  nor  jasmine's  sweet  perfume, 

Nor  modest  violet's  dower. 

I  little  thought  to  weave  a  lay, 

Or  choose  it  for  my  rhyme, 
But  now  it  has  a  treasure's  place 

Among  the  things  of  time. 

And  as  I  part  its  petals  five, 

And  note  the  crimson  heart 
That  glows  amid  the  snowy  leaves, 

The  tears  unbidden  start. 

It  'minds  me  of  a  burial-robe 

Above  a  silent  breast, 
Of  little  waxen  fingers  laid 

Upon  a  heart  at  rest. 

It  has  some  faint  similitude 

To  linen  vesture  placed, 
The  gift  of  our  dear  risen  Lord 

On  those  His  love  has  graced ; 

To  one  whom  He  has  borne  away, 

The  young  and  undefiled, 
Blessing,  with  His  own  holy  hand, 

The  future  of  my  child. 

It  has  its  own  peculiar  tale, 

To  others  all  unknown  ; 
A  tale  of  meek,  submissive  love 

This  simple  flower  has  shown. 

A  mother  never  can  forget 

Until  her  dying  hour, 
And  nevermore  her  glance  can  fall 

With  coldness  on  this  flower. 


98  ISABELLA    P.   HUSTON. 

A  little  child,  amid  his  friends, 
So  full  of  sport  and  play, 

The  golden  hours  unheeded  passed, 
One  sultry  summer  day. 

His  mother  called  ;  he  answered  her, 
But  could  not  break  away ; 

She  called  again,  he  lingered  still; 
Perhaps  they  urged  his  stay. 

At  last  the  mother  sought  her  child, 
She  took  his  little  hand; 

Unwillingly  she  punished  him, 
Remembering  the  command. 

And  when  his  troubled  face  was  calm, 
His  flowing  tears  were  dried, 

He  brought  a  white  althaea  flower, 
And  laid  it  at  her  side. 

He  brought  it  with  averted  eyes, 
An  offering  of  his  choice, — 

A  meek,  submissive  deed,  that  won 
The  mother's  heart  at  once. 

Oh,  did  some  holy  angel  write, 
With  the  recording  pen, 

His  entrance  to  the  gates  of  bliss, 
His  life  of  glory  then  ? 

I  think  so.     In  a  few  more  days 
Our  anxious  watch  begun, 

And  in  one  little  week  we  wept 
Above  our  lifeless  son. 

He  has  gone  home,  a  blessed  home, 
The  fair  home  of  the  free, 

The  holy  land  of  liberty, 
Where  harm  can  never  be. 

Although  his  place  is  vacant  here, 

A  mother's  heart. is  sad, 
Amid  the  shining  ranks  of  God 

Our  darling  child  is  glad. 


ISABELLA   P.   HUSTON.  99 

Glad  with  a  most  exceeding  joy, 

Crowned  with  a  saintly  grace, 
The  lineaments  of  glory  set 

Upon  his  angel  face. 

So  I  will  value  to  my  death 

The  white  althaea  flower, 
The  simple  thing  that  told  its  tale 

With  such  resistless  power. 


MY   MOTHER. 

HOU  resteth  in  the  silent  earth,  my  mother ! 

The  wintry  winds  are  sighing  o'er  thy  head ; 
Thou  sleepest  well ;  no  sorrow  can  awake  thee  ; 
No  tears  recall  the  treasured,  honored  dead. 

The  dear  old  home,  so  cherished  by  thee  living, 
Where  thy  loved  presence  gladdened  all  of  yore, 

Lies  a  forsaken  and  deserted  dwelling; 

The  haunts  that  knew  thee  once  know  thee  no  more. 

Not  many  months  have  passed  since  on  thy  bosom 
I  laid  my  head  in  confidence  and  trust, 

Moments  so  dear,  when  heart  to  heart  responded, — 
Thy  noble  heart,  now  mouldering  in  the  dust. 

Not  many  months  have  passed  since  that  dread  morning, 
When  thy  white  face  the  awful  summons  told, 

But  much  of  solemn  thought  and  deep  reflection 
Between  me  and  that  anguish  hour  have  rolled. 

And  can  it  be  that  all  those  strong  affections, 
Those  mighty  ties  of  nature  and  of  blood, 

Yearnings  so  tender,  love  so  pure  and  constant, 
Are  swept  into  eternity's  vast  flood  ? 

Too  well  I  know  that  never  to  my  longings 
Will  the  clear  heart  commune  again  with  me; 

The  love-light  of  those  eyes  is  quenched  forever, 
Thy  soul  hath  pierced  the  hidden  mystery. 


IOO  ISABELLA    P.   HUSTON. 

Thy  soul  hath  risen  from  its  toils  and  perils, 
From  its  deep  conflicts  and  its  earthly  snares  ; 

From  the  poor  frame  where  long  it  lay  in  thraldom, 
Bowed,  yet  not  buried,  'neath  its  weight  of  cares. 

And  at  the  bidding  of  its  beckoning  Saviour, 
Joying  to  find  its  freedom,  the  immortal, 

Ransomed,  redeemed,  in  its  white  robes  glorious, 
With  wide-spread  wing,  soared  on  through  heaven's 
portal. 

My  mother !  not  for  me  to  paint  those  glories 
Eye  hath  not  seen,  nor  mortal  presence  known ; 

Dying  at  peace  with  God  and  man,  thou  livest, 
I  humbly  trust,  in  light  before  the  throne. 

But  it  is  mine  to  tread  life's  solemn  pathway, 

And  mine  its  daily  duties  to  fulfil, 
To  feel  my  fainting  heart  oft  weak  and  powerless, 

Only  supported  by  God's  mercy  still. 

But  with  the  armor  of  His  faith  upon  me, 

My  father's  love,  when  kindred  ties  are  riven, 

May  it  be  mine,  when  death  shall  bring  my  summons, 
To  meet  thy  spirit  in  the  courts  of  heaven  ! 


TEA-ROSES. 

IN    MEMORY    OF   THE   LOVELY    AND    BELOVED. 

N  her  dear  hands,  that  lay  so  white  and  still, 
Never  to  lift  them  to  the  tasks  of  life, 
Never  to  smooth  the  brow  of  childhood  fair, 
Never  to  minister  to  those  she  loved, 
Never  to  close  again  in  friendship's  clasp, 
Never  to  do  those  thousand  gentle  things 
That  sprang  so  truly  from  her  loyal  heart, 
Was  placed  a  spray  of  fragrant  roses  rare ; 
A  mother's  simple  offering  to  her  dead, 
She  bore  them  with  her  to  the  silent  tomb. 
Oh,  beautiful,  pale  flowers !   ye  could  but  show 


HELEN  I.  HODGSON.  IOI 

How  frailer  than  your  blossoming  the  life 
That  human  love  and  skill  had  failed  to  keep  ; 
But  in  your  fragrance,  that  survives  the  bloom, 
The  essences  of  heaven  ye  typify, 
The  sweetness  of  that  fair,  immortal  flower, 
That  the  dear  Lord  has  gathered  to  Himself ! 


TRUTH. 

WRITTEN   IN   MY   DAUGHTER'S   ALBUM. 

OVE  then  the  truth,  my  child ; 

Let  no  evasive,  guileful  spirit  steal 

The  open  candor  from  thy  brow  of  youth. 

The  truth  is  beautiful,  and  habits  formed 
To  rise  above  ignoble,  paltry  aims, 
That  pamper  self  and  ease  and  pride  of  life, 
But  rather  to  be  gentle,  noble,  just, 
Preferring  others  to  one's  self,  if  need, — 
These  things  belong  to  truth  and  sweeten  life. 
So,  when  the  holy,  everlasting  truth, 
That  lived,  and  loved,  and  suffered  here  below, 
Dawns  on  thy  wakened  soul,  thou  may'st  arise, 
Shaking  the  dust  from  thy  earth-trailing  robes, 
Sell  all  thou  hast  below,  and  buy  that  pearl ! 


HELEN    I.    HODGSON. 

HELEN  IRWIN  HODGSON,  daughter  of  Alexander  and  Mercy 
(Kirk)  Johnston,  was  born  at  Penn  Hill,  Lancaster  County,  Pa.,  Oc 
tober  24,  1845.  Her  father's  family  were  Presbyterians,  and  her 
mother  was  an  approved  minister  of  the  Society  of  Friends. 
When  she  was  two  years  old  her  parents  removed  to  Philadelphia, 
where  she  remained  until  she  was  eighteen,  when  she  visited  rel 
atives  in  Monmouth,  111.  She  was  educated  in  Philadelphia 
and  at  the  college  in  Monmouth.  She  was  married  to  Alexander 
Hodgson,  in  Philadelphia,  April  24,  1866.  With  the  exception 
of  a  few  years  spent  in  Virginia,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hodgson's  married 
life  has  been  spent  near  Cochranville,  Chester  County. 

Mrs.  Hodgson  began  to  write  poetry  when  about  sixteen  years 
of  age,  and  has  published  many  fine  poems  in  the  Chester  County 


IO2  HELEN   I.  HODGSON. 


journals,  Presbyterian  yournal,  Sunday  Republic,  New  York 
Weekly,  The  Sunny  South,  and  other  periodicals.  Her  writings 
are  much  admired  for  their  sweetness  and  beauty  and  the  smooth 
ness  of  their  versification. 


CHESTER   VALLEY. 

WEET  vale  of  beauty,  as  we  fly 

Along  thy  paths  on  wings  of  steam, 
Entrancing  fair  unto  the  eye 

Thy  radiant  loveliness  doth  beam  ; 
How  brightly  glows  each  verdant  spot ! 

How  soft  thy  balmly  breezes  swell ! 
Tranquil  and  happy  seems  the  lot 
Of  those  who  in  thy  places  dwell. 

Oft  have  we  watched  the  prairie  lines 

Grow  dim  beneath  a  Western  sky, 
And  seen  the  fragrant  Southern  pines 

Uplift  their  dusky  heads  on  high; 
But  brightly  still  wilt  thou  compare 

With  each  and  every  beauteous  scene, 
For  thou,  sweet  vale,  art  passing  fair, 

And  lovely  as  a  poet's  dream. 

And  yet  we  know  there  hovers  near, 

Like  evil-omen'd  birds  of  prey, 
Temptation,  malice,  hatred,  fear, 

With  all  the  ills  of  sordid  clay ; 
For  never  was  there  spot  so  fair, 

Since  man  did  first  in  Eden  fall, 
But  still  the  serpent  will  be  there, 

And  his  dark  trail  lie  over  all. 

Ah,  well,  some  happy  day  we'll  rise 

To  fields  of  everlasting  green  ; 
In  that  pure  land  beyond  the  skies 

No  sinful  form  is  ever  seen  ; 
And  there,  with  eager,  longing  mind, 

Life's  puzzling  problems  we  shall  "know, 
And  in  the  sweet  solution  find 

All  that  our  souls  have  missed  below. 


HELEN  I.  HODGSON.  IO3 


THE   DOVE. 

HE  tired  dove  of  ancient  days, 

With  anxious  eye  and  troubled  breast, 
Sought  far  across  the  stormy  way 

Some  spot  where  her  small  foot  might  rest, 
But  could  not  find  it ;  dark  and  drear 
The  sullen  waters  still  were  spread ; 
There  was  no  place  of  refuge  near, 
No  shelter  for  her  weary  head. 

Where  were  the  bending  branches  fair, 

On  which  she  used  to  build  her  nest? 
And  where  the  soft  and  ambient  air 

That  lullabied  her  nightly  rest  ? 
Alas  !  each  object  loved  was  gone, 

And  quenched  was  every  human  breath ; 
There  was  one  hand,  and  only  one, 

Could  save  her  from  a  watery  death. 

Then,  with  unerring  instinct,  turned 

The  bird  unto  her  former  home, 
Where  brightly  still  the  beacon  burned, 

Until  a  fairer  day  should  come. 
No  cavilling  nor  doubting  thought 

Obscured  the  calmness  of  her  breast ; 
She  straight  the  ark  of  safety  sought, 

And  there  found  welcome,  life,  and  rest. 

So,  like  the  dove,  with  anxious  mind, 

Along  this  earthly  way  we  rove, 
Seeking  in  vain  some  spot  to  find 

On  which  to  anchor  all  our  love ; 
But  one  by  one  our  friends  have  gone, 

And  soon  our  brightest  hopes  have  fled ; 
We  stand  on  life's  bleak  shore  alone — 

Alone  among  the  silent  dead. 

The  crested  waves  of  sin  and  fear 

Are  rising  upward  to  our  feet ; 
Is  there  no  place  of  shelter  near, 

No  happy  haven,  tried  and  sweet  ? 


104 


HELEN  I.  HODGSON. 


Ah,  yes  !  our  shipwrecked  souls  may  turn, 
With  dove-like  trusting  faith,  above, 

To  where  the  lights  of  safety  burn, 
And  there  find  refuge  in  His  love. 


THE    DRIFTING   YEARS. 

H,  drifting  years,  sad  drifting  years, 

As  swiftly  on  ye  glide, 
How  freighted  with  fond  hopes  and  fears 

Has  been  your  rushing  tide ; 
Love,  faithful  once,  and  friendships  true, 

Lie  in  your  buried  past  ; 
They  vanished  like  the  morning  dew, 
Too  beautiful  to  last. 

Oh,  drifting  years,  what  will  ye  bring 

To  these  sad  hearts  of  ours, 
For  all  the  wasted  seed  of  spring, 

That  never  bloomed  in  flowers? 
For  all  the  unrequited  toil, 

The  labor  spent  in  vain, 
In  working  on  a  barren  soil 

That  would  not  yield  us  grain  ? 


Oh,  drifting  years,  could  ye  unfold 

No  page  save  this  of  earth, 
The  poor  dwarfed  life  we  mortals  hold 

Were  not  a  farthing's  worth  ; 
Were  there  no  torch  to  guide  us  here, 

No  ray  to  pierce  the  gloom, 
Faith  would  be  crucified  by  fear, 

And  hope  desert  the  tomb. 

There'll  come,  for  every  pang  we  feel, 

A  recompense  some  day  ; 
God's  tender  hand  each  wound  will  heal, 

And  wipe  our  tears  away. 
Look  up,  dear  friends !  from  yon  fair  clime 

A  golden  light  appears : 
Into  that  radiance  divine 

Shall  flow  our  drifting  years. 


HELEN  I.  HODGSON.  IO5 


WONDERINGS. 

WONDER  if  some  golden  day, 

When  we  have  reached  the  heavenly  home, 
We  shall  look  back  along  the  way 

By  which  our  weary  feet  have  come, 
And  think  'twas  well  that  care  and  pain 

Upon  our  pathway  used  to  wait  ? 
They  were  the  steps  by  which  we  came 
Upward,  unto  the  pearly  gate. 

1  wonder  if,  when  we  shall  meet 

The  dear  loved  friends  now  from  us  gone, 
The  recognition  glad  and  sweet 

Of  that  blest  hour  can  atone 
For  each  dark  day  and  dreary  night, 

Each  longing  so  intense  and  sad, 
To  see  once  more  those  smiles  so  bright 

That  in  the  past  have  made  us  glad  ? 

I  wonder  if  the  hearts  estranged, 

Once  filled  with  tenderness  and  love, 
But  now  so  deeply,  sadly  changed, 

Will  in  the  shining  courts  above 
Come  forth  to  welcome  us  with  songs, 

Forgetful  of  the  bitter  past ; 
Or  will  the  memory  of  some  wrongs 

Even  the  change  of  death  outlast  ? 

I  wonder  if  aspiring  thought, 

By  earth's  strong  power  unwilling  chained, 
Will  to  perfection  there  be  brought, 

The  mind's  ideal  be  attained  ? 
It  must  be  so  !  and  death's  dark  storms 

Do  bear  the  bravest  souls  away, 
That  they  may  carve  celestial  forms, 

Which  here  they  could  but  "  mould  in  clay." 

Wonder  no  longer,  then,  but  know 
The  crown  to  which  we  all  aspire 

Is  only  gained  by  those  who  go, 

With  willing  footsteps,  through  the  fire  ; 


IO6  RACHEL    HUNT. 


And  when,  though  wounded  in  the  strife, 
Victory  is  ours,  how  sweet  to  find 

The  flame  has  burned  the  dross  of  life, 
And  left  for  Heaven  the  gold  refined  ! 


RACHEL    HUNT. 

RACHEL  HUNT,  daughter  of  Joseph  and  Hannah  Gibbons,  was 
born  in  Westtown  Township,  in  1761.  Married  John  Hunt,  Oc 
tober  29,  1777.  Died  February  15,  1845.  She  was  a  member  of 
the  Society  of  Friends,  and  the  author  of  a  small  volume  of  prose 
and  poetry,  called  "  Fruits  and  Flowers,"  published  in  Philadel 
phia  in  1843. 

HUMBLE   CONFIDENCE. 

OODNESS  and  mercy  reign  above, 
Diffusing  truth  and  peace  and  love, 
And  lighting,  like  the  mystic  dove, 

Upon  the  pure  in  heart  ; 
May  all  his  chosen  ones  draw  near 
In  faith  unfeigned  and  holy  fear, 
Wait  'till  his  blessed  presence  cheer, 

And  thus  enjoy  their  part. 

But  why  will  bold,  presumptuous  man, 
Whose  days  on  earth  are  but  a  span, 
Still  thwart  Jehovah's  gracious  plan, 

And  substitute  his  own  ? 
How  poor,  how  weak  his  vain  pretence, 
His  learned  logic,  crafty  sense, 
Compared  with  truth,  the  sure  defence, 

When  power  supreme  is  known  ! 

The  soul  immortal,  which  thou  gave, 
Is  thine,  and  thine  the  power  to  save, — 
Thro'  our  probations  to  the  grave, 

Preserve  us  in  thy  fear ; 
Oh,  cast  us  not  out  of  thy  sight, 
But  let  us  in  thy  law  delight, 
And  watchful  pass  the  mental  night, 

Until  the  day  appear  ! 


JOHN    HICKMAN. 


lO/ 


JOHN    HICKMAN. 

JOHN  HICKMAN  was  born  in  what  was  then  West  Bradford 
Township,  but  is  now  Pocopson,  September  II,  1810.  His  father 
was  a  farmer,  and  he  was  educated  in  his  father's  house,  his  teacher 
being  a  graduate  of  the  University  of  Edinburgh.  He  studied 
medicine  for  a  while,  but  discontinued  that  study  on  account  of  ill 
health,  and  studied  law  in  the  office  of  Judge  Townsend  Haines, 
and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1832.  He  was  a  candidate  for 
Congress  in  1844  on  the  Democratic  ticket,  but  was  defeated. 
He  was  subsequently  appointed  Attorney-General  of  the  State, 
and  after  serving  a  few  terms  resigned.  In  1854  he  was  elected 
to  Congress,  and  continued  to  represent  the  district  until  1862, 
when  he  declined  a  re-election.  During  the  stormy  times  which 
followed  the  repeal  of  the  Missouri  Compromise,  and  the  quarrel 
between  the  North  and  the  South  in  regard  to  the  admission  of  the 
State  of  Kansas,  though  elected  as  a  Democrat,  he  was  on  the  side 
of  the  North,  and  won  a  national  reputation  as  an  untiring  oppo 
nent  of  the  slave  power.  He  died  March  23,  1875.  Though  not 
so  brilliant  a  poet  as  an  orator,  he  possessed  poetical  talents  of  a 
high  order,  as  shown  by  the  following  poem. 


THE   POOR. 

"  For  ye  have  the  poor  with  you  always,  and  whensoever  ye 
will  ye  may  do  them  good." — MARK  xiv.  7. 


ONDER  cot  upon  the  common, 
Rudely  built,  decayed,  and  old, 

In  the  twilight,  haunted  seeming, 
Gloomy,  fearful,  solemn,  cold, 

Half  concealing,  is  revealing 
Scenes  of  sadness  seldom  told. 

Shivering  forms  in  hoar  mid-winter 

Nestle  on  its  creaking  floor, 
Gazing  on  a  vacant  fire-place 

And  the  crannies  in  the  door, 
Sorrow's  traces  on  their  faces, 

Wearing  badges  of  the  poor. 

'Tis  not  cold,  it  is  not  hunger, 

Tho'  they've  wrestled  with  them  long, 

As  the  stripling  with  the  giant, 
As  the  weak  against  the  strong, 


IO8  JOHN    HICKMAN. 


Failing  ever,  hoping  never, 

Wondering  why  they  suffer  wrong. 

There  the  father,  there  the  children, 
Nursed  in  anguish  and  in  love, 

Mingling  sighs  and  sobs  together, 

Which  the  pride  of  each  might  move ; 

Faint  and  weary,  lone  and  dreary, 
Having  but  a  friend  above. 

She,  the  partner  and  the  mother, — 

She  has  fallen  in  the  strife, 
Wasted  to  the  very  spirit, 

Cheated  out  of  very  life ; 
She  has  left  them,  and  bereft  them 

Of  a  parent  and  a  wife. 

In  the  dark  and  quiet  watches 
Of  the  wild  and  stormy  night, 

On  the  ridgy  floor  they  laid  her 
In  her  robe  of  tatter'd  white ; 

God  has  taken  the  forsaken 
Out  of  darkness  into  light. 

How  she  struggled  on  in  anguish 
Ere  she  totter'd  to  the  blow  ! 

Not  for  self,  but  all  for  others, 
For  the  lowest  of  the  low, 

Yet  sustaining,  uncomplaining, 
Pangs  the  world  may  never  know. 

Whilst  the  snow  is  falling  thickly 
O'er  the  rough  and  frozen  ground — 

Whilst  the  wind  against  the  forest 
Wakes  a  dull  funereal  sound — 

Bending  lowly,  moving  slowly, 
Treasure  bear  they  to  the  mound. 

Yes,  the  patient,  fond,  confiding, 
Borne  in  silence  by  her  own, 

They  have  laid  in  earthly  chamber, 
Made  and  closed  by  them  alone ; 

Unbefriended,  unattended, 

Without  name,  or  line,  or  stone. 


HALLIDAY  JACKSON.  I(X) 

Thus  they  live,  and  thus  they  perish, 

Whilst  the  garner  runneth  o'er, 
And  the  fire  is  blazing  brightly 

Near,  within  the  rich  man's  door  ; 
Arms  are  aching,  hearts  are  breaking  ! 

Who,  alas!  protects  the  poor? 

Know  we  not  ?  or  are  we  careless, 
That  "  the  poor  we  always  have," 

Want's  pale  children,  needing  little 
To  restore  them  strong  and  brave  ? 

Nature  teaching,  Christ  beseeching 
Us  to  save  them,  we  should  save. 


HALLIDAY  JACKSON. 

HALLIDAY  JACKSON,  son  of  Halliday  and  Jane  (Hough) 
Jackson,  was  born  near  Darby,  Delaware  County,  Pa.,  De 
cember  27,  1817,  and  died  at  his  home  in  West  Chester,  August 
6,  1887.  He  was  a  prominent  member  of  the  Society  of  Friends, 
and  a  descendant  of  Isaac  Jackson,  who  came  from  England  and 
settled  in  London  Grove  Township,  not  far  from  West  Grove, 
early  in  the  last  century.  He  was  educated  in  Wilmington, 
Del.,  and  Alexandria,  Va.  At  the  age  of  nineteen  he  commenced 
teaching  school,  and  in  1849  was  chosen  principal  of  Friends 
Institute  in  the  city  of  New  York,  and  filled  that  position  for 
five  years.  In  1863,  his  health  being  impaired,  he  purchased  a 
farm  near  West  Chester,  upon  which  he  resided  until  1881,  when 
he  removed  to  West  Chester.  In  1846  he  married  Caroline 
Hoopes,  daughter  of  Thomas  and  Eliza  Hoopes,  of  West  Goshen, 
who  died  June  28,  1851.  In  1854  he  married  Emily  Hoopes,  his 
first  wife's  sister,  who  survived  him.  He  was  one  of  the  com 
mittee  appointed  at  the  sesqui-centennial  reunion  to  prepare  a 
record  of  the  Jackson  family,  which  with  the  aid  of  the  others  he 
did  in  a  very  acceptable  manner.  He  was  the  author  of  a  number 
of  poems,  which  were  collected  by  his  family,  and  published  in  a 
small  volume  of  176  pages  by  the  Friends'  Book  Association  in 
1888. 


THE   STORMY  PETREL. 

EAUTIFUL  bird  !     I  love  to  watch  thee 

Gliding  along  o'er  the  billowy  crest, 
Daily  and  nightly  hovering  round  us — 
Where,  oh  where,  is  thy  place  of  rest  ? 


IIO  HALLIDAY   JACKSON. 

They  call  thee  petrel,  because  thou  walkest 

Upon  the  wave  of  the  rolling  deep ; 
Dost  thou  for  the  lonely  mariner,  nightly, 

To  cheer  him  onward,  thy  vigils  keep? 

The  flowers  may  bloom  on  earth's  green  border, 
But  not  for  thee  is  their  sweet  perfume ; 

Thine  are  the  varied  sea-weeds  floating, 
And  'tis  thine  to  carol  'mid  ocean's  gloom. 

I  hail  thee,  bird  of  the  briny  ocean ! 

Thy  gentle  trilling  notes  to  hear; 
And  thy  music  low,  with  the  sea-moan  mingled, 

Falls,  softly  falls,  on  the  listening  ear. 

When  the  shades  of  even  gather  around  us, 

And  the  stars  in  their  wonted  brightness  appear, 

And  the  moonbeams  play  on  the  crested  billow, 
Thou  art  nigh,  little  wanderer,  still  to  cheer. 

Though  ofttimes  the  darkness  of  night  o'erspread  thee, 

Careering  alone  in  thy  devious  way, 
Yet  the  power  that  ruleth  the  tempest  and  billow 

Directeth  by  night  as  well  as  by  day. 

To  this  I  must  look  on  life's  perilous  ocean, 
Where  billows  like  these  are  never  at  rest ; 

To  this  as  my  guide  to  the  haven  of  Promise, 
Land  of  the  peaceful  and  home  of  the  blest. 


CLAYTONIA  VIRGINICA. 

SPRING  BEAUTY. 

PRING  BEAUTY"  we  call  thee— 'tis  well, 

For  we  look  to  the  bright  floral  train, 
By  way-side,  in  woodland  and  dell, 
For  thy  rival,  but  seek  we  in  vain. 

Thy  petals  the  soft  touch  of  light 

Hath  streaked  with  the  sun's  roseate  ray, 

And  thy  bloom  in  profusion,  how  bright 
In  the  smiles  of  the  sunshine  of  May. 


LAURA   A.  JOHNSON.  Ill 

Meek  flower  !  that  lovest  to  keep 

Unharmed  from  the  noon's  piercing  beam, 

Or  the  loitering  chill  winds  that  sweep 
Over  wood-top,  and  valley,  and  stream. 

In  thy  meekness  a  symbol  appears 

Of  that  meekness  our  lives  should  put  on 

As  a  crown  for  the  fulness  of  years, 
As  well  as  at  life's  early  dawn. 

The  lesson  thou  teachest  this  while, 

Engraved  may  it  be  on  my  heart, 
So  that,  free  from  dissembling  and  guile, 

My  summer  of  years  may  depart. 

And  when  the  bright  summer  is  past, 

And  the  fruits  unto  ripeness  perfect, 
There  is,  that  will  gather  at  last, 

A  hand  to  preserve  and  protect. 

There  is  that  will  point  to  a  clime 

Where  are  flowers  fanned  by  heaven's  pure  breath, 
Beyond  all  the  changes  of  time, 

And  beyond  the  cold  valley  of  death. 


LAURA   A.   JOHNSON. 

LAURA  ANNA  JOHNSON,  daughter  of  William  A.  and  Sarah 
(Benson)  Harlan,  was  born  in  Fallston,  Harford  County,  Md., 
and  is  the  youngest  of  a  large  family.  When  she  was  about  three 
years  of  age  her  father  removed  to  Michigan,  leaving  her  with  her 
uncle,  Joseph  Harlan,  with  whom  and  his  two  sisters  she  resided 
until  her  marriage  to  Joseph  H.  Johnson,  December  28,  1869. 

Mrs.  Johnson  was  educated  at  private  schools  in  the  neighbor 
hood  in  which  she  resided,  and  began  to  write  poetry  when  fifteen 
years  old.  Though  not  written  for  the  press,  some  of  her  poems 
have  been  published  in  the  Harford  and  Chester  County  news 
papers,  and  by  the  American  Tract  Society. 


112  LAURA   A.   JOHNSON. 


SPEAK   OF   JESUS. 

PEAK  to  the  child  of  Jesus, 

Oh,  tell  it,  friend,  how  He 
Has  said,  in  accents  sweet  and  mild, 
"  Come,  little  ones,  to  me." 

Oh,  tell  the  young  how  Jesus 
Stands  knocking  at  the  gate ; 

Tell  them  to  let  the  Saviour  in 
Before  it  is  too  late. 

He'll  safely  guide  their  youthful  feet 

Along  life's  slipp'ry  way, 
And  comfort  them  when  sorrows  come, 

And  gild  declining  day. 

Speak  to  the  careworn  of  the  Lord, 

Oh,  tell  them  of  His  love  ! 
Oh,  point  them  to  the  "easy  yoke" 

And  endless  rest  above. 

Speak  to  the  sinning  one  of  Him 
Who  stilled  the  troubled  wave  ; 

Who  came  from  His  bright  home  above, 
A  sinful  world  to  save. 

Speak  to  the  homeless  here  below 
Of  mansions  bright  and  fair  ; — 

Jesus  prepares  the  happy  home 
That  all  with  Him  may  share. 

Go  to  the  sick  and  comfort  them, 

Tell  them  of  Jesus'  love ; 
Tell  them  in  Heaven  no  sickness  comes, 

That  all  is  peace  above. 

Go  tell  the  sad  that  Jesus  lives 

To  comfort  hearts  forlorn  ; 
Tell  them  the  lost  in  joy  they'll  meet, 

And  bid  them  cease  to  mourn. 


THE    KENT    FAMILY. 


Speak  to  the  humble  of  their  Lord, 

Who  lowly  was  and  meek  ; 
His  strength,  His  might,  His  power  to  save, 

Unto  the  feeble  speak. 

Speak  to  all  men  of  Jesus  Christ, 
Our  Shepherd,  Kinsman,  Friend, 

Our  Saviour  and  our  blessed  Lord, 
Who  loves  us  to  the  end. 


THE  KENT  FAMILY. 

HENRY  SIMMONS  KENT,  Esther  Kent  (Smedley),  and  Anne 
F.  Kent  (Bradley),  are  the  descendants  of  Daniel  Kent,  a  native 
of  Ireland,  who  settled  in  Chester  County  in  the  latter  part  of  the 
last  century,  and  are  the  children  of  Benjamin  Kent  and  Hannah 
Simmons  Kent. 


HENRY   S.   KENT. 

HENRY  S.  KENT  was  born  in  Penn  Township,  March  3,  1833. 
His  boyhood  was  spent  on  his  father's  farm,  and  his  education  ob 
tained  at  the  public  schools,  except  one  term  at  the  Faggs  Manor 
Presbyterian  Academy,  where  he  fitted  himself  for  the  duties  of  a 
teacher.  When  about  eighteen  years  old  he  took  charge  of  a 
public  school,  and  continued  to  teach  for  nineteen  years.  At 
the  age  of  twenty-six  he  married  Patience  Webster.  For  some 
years  they  have  residefl  at  Hockessin,  Del.  Mr.  Kent  began  to 
write  poetry  when  quite  young,  and  has  contributed  much  to 
Scattered  Seeds  and  the  Children's  Friend.  Though  not  a  con 
tributor  to  the  local  press,  many  of  his  poems,  owing  to  the 
partiality  of  his  friends  to  whom  they  were  addressed,  have  been 
published  in  the  Chester  County  journals. 


ESTHER   KENT   (SMEDLEY). 

ESTHER  KENT  was  born  at  Andrews  Bridge,  in  Lancaster 
County,  October  10,  1835.  Her  education,  except  one  term1  at  a 
Seminary,  was  obtained  at  the  public  schools,  where  she  fitted 
herself  to  engage  in  teaching,  which  she  practised  with  much 
success  for  a  short  time.  At  the  age  of  twenty-six  she  married 
h  10* 


114  HENRY   S.  KENT. 


Dr.  Robert  C.  Smedley.  A  year  afterwards  they  settled  in  West 
Chester.  In  the  spring  of  1866  she  commenced  the  publication 
of  the  Children's  Friend,  an  illustrated  magazine  for  the  young, 
which  was  designed  to  meet  a  want  long  felt  in  the  Society  of 
Friends,  of  which  she  was  a  member.  She  commenced  to  write 
poetry  for  the  county  newspapers  some  time  before  her  marriage, 
and  was  a  frequent  contributor  to  their  columns  for  some  years. 
She  was  a  chaste  and  pleasant  writer,  and  her  poems  are  much 
admired.  She  died  May  13,  1873. 


ANNE   F.   KENT   (BRADLEY). 

ANNE  F.  KLNT  was  born  at  Andrews  Bridge,  Lancaster 
County,  August  19,  1838.  Her  education,  except  that  she  at 
tended  a  young  ladies'  seminary  for  one  term,  was  obtained  at 
the  public  schools  of  Chester  County,  the  family  having  removed 
to  near  West  Grove  when  she  was  quite  young.  Being  fond  of 
learning,  she  engaged  in  teaching  in  the  public  schools,  and 
while  so  occupied  studied  the  higher  mathematics  and  the  Latin 
language,  and  rose  to  the  principalship  of  one  of  the  best  high- 
schools  in  the  county.  In  the  twenty-seventh  year  of  her  age  she 
married  Caleb  H.  Bradley.  She  began  to  write  poetry  when  about 
sixteen  years  old.  Many  of  her  poems  were  published  in  the 
Chester  County  journals,  The  Aldine  of  New  York,  and  the 
Lady's  Friend  of  Philadelphia.  After  the  failure  of  the  health 
of  her  sister  she  became  editor  of  the  Children's  Friend,  and 
continued  to  fill  the  place  with  much  credit  until  near  the  close 
of  her  life. 

She  was  the  most  voluminous  and  brilliant  writer  of  the  family, 
and  received  the  approbation  and  encouragement  of  John  G. 
Whittier  and  J.  G.  Holland.  She  died  July  26,  1879. 


HENRY   S.   KENT. 
A  DIVERSITY  OF  GIFTS,  BUT  ONE  SPIRIT.' 

EADS  may  differ,  hearts  agree ; 

This  is  sweetest  song  to  me  ; 

In  this  world  of  jar  and  strife, 

Who  shall  reach  the  perfect  life  ? 
Shall  I  ever  feign  to  know 
Just  the  way  for  all  to  go  ? 
If  for  me  a  faith  be  true, 
Is  it  surely  so  to  you? 


HENR.Y   S.  KENT.  1 1  5 


If  my  "  manna"  tasteth  good, 

Is  it  everybody's  food  ? 

Is  it  clear  that  all  must  see 

Through  the  glasses  suiting  me  ? 

If  all  thoughts  with  mine  would  chime, 

Would  we  have  a  better  time  ? 

Heads  may  part,  while  hearts  agree, 

Is  a  wiser  thought  to  me.     * 

Brother,  cast  thine  eye  abroad 
O'er  this  wondrous  field  of  God  : 
See  design  so  clearly  shown 
That  a  fool  may  read  and  run  ; 
Not  an  object,  new  or  old, 
Fashioned  in  another's  mould  ; 
Every  feathered  songster's  tone 
Makes  a  music  all  its  own  ; 
Every  leaf  and  flower  and  tree, 
Every  thing  we  hear  and  see, 
In  the  air  or  on  the  sod, 
Through  the  endless  realm  of  God, 
Plainly  shows  what  all  may  see, — 
Beauty  in  diversity. 
Then,  my  brother,  sing  with  me, — 
Heads  must  differ,  hearts  agree. 

Oh,  how  silly  is  our  strife, 

Warring  with  the  law  of  life ; 

Making  discord,  where  should  be 

The  sublimest  melody ; 

Calling  evil  what  is  good 

In  the  sacred  brotherhood. 

Man,  in  nature's  mighty  soul, 

Is  but  parcel  of  the  whole ; 

Crowned  with  power  of  thought  and  will, 

Finest  touch  of  heavenly  skill ; 

But  that  thought  and  will  impressed 

By  the  law  that  framed  the  rest. 

Then,  my  brother,  fall  in  line 

With  creation's  grand  design, 

And,  rejoicing,  sing  with  me, — 

Heads  may  differ,  hearts  agree. 


Il6  HENRY   S.  KENT. 


TO   MY  WIFE 

ON    HER   FORTY-THIRD    BIRTHDAY,   2  MO.    23,   1884. 

H  me  !  how  swiftly  years  do  glide  away; 
I  have  a  memory  fresh  as  yesterday, — 
Although  a  quarter  century  intervenes, — 
Of  a  bright,  blushing  maiden  in  her  teens, 
Her  eyes  full  of  love's  lustre,  and  her  heart 
Woven  with  mine  by  Cupid's  mystic  art ; 
And  I  remember  with  what  fervor  then 
I  sought  my  chamber  and  my  limping  pen, 
To  write  her  birthday  verses ;  sure  was  I 
That  she  would  scan  them  with  a.  partial  eye. 

I  vowed  I  loved  thee,  and  I  vow  to-day — 

Although  the  years  have  stolen  some  charms  away, 

Some  roses  from  thy  cheek  and  from  thine  eye, 

Some  sparkle  that  with  youth  must  always  die — 

That  now  I  love  thee  with  intenser  zeal 

Than  in  my  youth  my  untutored  heart  could  feel. 

Though  time  has  pilfered,  he  has  given  thee  more  : 

For  the  uncertain  impulse,  steadfast  power  ; 

For  love's  electric  flash,  a  constant  ray 

Of  mellow  light  that  turns  the  night  to  day ; 

That  makes  thy  home  the  dearest  place  to  be, 
For  husband,  children,  all  who  come  to  thee. 
And  for  each  petty  charm  thy  soul  has  lost, 
Some  new  rich  beauty  has  o'erpaid  the  cost. 
'Tis  spirit  growth  alone  that  gives  true  grace 
And  beauty  to  the  human  form  and  face ; 
And  I  can  mark  such  lines  of  beauty  now 
That  were  not  traced  upon  thy  maiden  brow. 
The  purer  purpose  and  the  riper  thought, 
The  clearer  views  of  life  the  years  have  brought, 
Have  made  thee  to  my  eyes  exceeding  fair, 
Despite  the  marks  of  weariness  and  wear. 

Dear  wife,  fond  mother,  friend  to  all  the  good, 
Thy  spirit  with  the  love  of  right  imbued, 
How  can  I  less  than  sing  unstinted  praise 
For  thy  dear,  loving  help  through  all  these  days  ? 


HENRY   S.  KENT.  I  I/ 


Without  thee  life  had  been  a  thorny  way, 
But  with  thee  as  a  brief  and  blissful  day ; 
And  as  the  hurrying  years  still  come  and  go, 
Stronger  I  trust  my  love  for  thee  shall  grow. 
Whate'er  betide  us  be  it  sun  or  shade, 
The  passion  of  the  lover  shall  not  fade. 


LINES : 

SUGGESTED   BY  A  CAUTION   NOT   TO   SPEAK  THAT  TRUTH 
WHICH   TENDS   TO   DESTROY   OTHER   PEOPLE'S   FAITH. 

ROM  lips  of  mine  no  words  shall  come 
To  shake  another's  faith  in  good, 
But  I  would  wish  it  understood 
'Tis  not  my  mission  to  be  dumb. 

I  will  not  speak  in  underbreath, 
Nor  put  my  lighted  candle  out, 
Lest  some  poor  moth  should  flit  about, 

And  hapless  burn  itself  to  death. 

If  men  build  houses  on  the  sand, 
And  the  floods  come  and  wash  away 
Their  weak  foundations  in  a  day, 

And  the  winds  sweep  them  from  the  land, — 

Shall  they  then  in  their  grief  and  shame 
Reprove  the  elemental  force, 
Nor  see  the  folly  of  their  course, 

But  hold  the  wind  and  wave  to  blame? 

Truth's  surging  tides  will  not  be  stilled, 
And  reason's  sifting  winds  will  blow, 
And  it  is  best  that  men  should  know 

Upon  what  kind  of  ground  to  build. 

'Tis  wise  to  plant  our  walls  of  faith 
So  firm  on  reason's  granite  rock, 
That  scarce  a  moral  earthquake's  shock 

Shall  shake  their  pillars  underneath. 


n8 


HENRY   S.  KENT. 


Get  to  your  houses,  ye  who  quail 
Before  the  summer  solstice'  glow, 
Or  shrink  from  winter's  breath  of  snow, 

For  God's  great  forces  must  prevail. 

And  never  since  the  world  began 
Has  been  evolved  a  natural  force 
More  ceaseless  in  its  onward  course 

Than  duty  in  the  soul  of  man. 

The  truth  I  have  is  only  mine 

To  use,  and  lend,  and  give  away ; 
I  have  no  moral  right  to  stay 

The  progress  of  that  law  divine, 

That,  like  a  germ  beneath  the  sod, 
Makes  truth  within  the  soul  to  swell 
Until  it  bursts  its  narrow  cell, 

And  blossoms  in  the  light  of  God. 

Then  let  us  keep  our  purpose  pure, 
And  fetterless  our  tongue  and  pen, 
And  let  the  little  creeds  of  men 

Go  down,  if  they  will  not  endure. 


STANZAS. 


TO   A    FRIEND   WHO   CALLS   ALL    FICTION    FALSEHOOD. 


ND  must  our  fancies  all  be  slain 
Beneath  the  heavy  heel  of  fact, 
Or,  turning  on  their  joysome  track, 

Retreat  like  vagrants  from  the  brain  ? 

Brand  we  all  fiction  as  pretence, 
As  poison  seasoned  to  the  taste? 
Is  there  no  realm  of  truth  not  placed 

In  contact  with  our  outward  sense? 


HENRY   S.  KENT. 


True,  we  do  know  what  we  have  seen, 
Of  what  we  handle  we  are  sure ; 
But  is  there  nothing  else  secure, 

No  other  real  world  within  ? 

Are  true  ideals  less  of  fact, 

While  in  the  primal  stage  of  thought, 
Than  when  to 'general  notice  brought 

By  virtue  of  the  outward  act  ? 

The  wondrous  things  our  arts  produce — 
What  are  they  but  ideals  wrought 
And  crystalized  from  human  thought 

To  forms  of  beauty  and  of  use  ? 

Why,  e'er  this  teeming  earth  was  trod, 
Before  the  morning  stars  were  glad, 
Creation  its  existence  had 

Within  the  mighty  thought  of  God. 

The  life  we  live,  all  things  that  be, 
Each  act  we  do  was  first  a  thought, 
And  never  yet  a  deed  was  wrought 

That  was  not  first  an  imagery. 

The  craft  that  ploughs  the  watery  main 
Leaves  less  of  furrow  in  its  wake 
Than  the  same  embryo  ship  did  make 

Upon  the  poor  mechanic's  brain. 

The  ideal  world  is  peopled,  too : 

Call  them  but  phantoms  if  you  will, 
Or  fictions  if  you  choose,  but  still 

They  may  be  real  things,  and  true. 

Our  minds  with  beauteous  forms  are  filled ; 

As  in  a  mirror  do  we  see 

The  images  of  things  to  be, 
The  models  after  which  we  build. 

Then  honor  give  where  honor's  due, 
My  friend  ;  without  thee  or  within 
There  are  some  facts  as  false  as  sin, 

Some  fictions  that  are  grandly  true. 


I2O  ESTHER    KENT    (SMEDLEY). 

ESTHER   KENT    (SMEDLEY). 

MY  LOVE   AND   I. 

O  dazzling  light  on  the  wearisome  night 

Is  my  chosen  one  to  me; 
But  her  love  is  a  star  that  lights  afar 

On  the  dark  and  troubled  sea. 

When  the  shadows  of  night  go  flitting  by, 

And  the  sun  sinks  down  in  the  western  sky, 

We  walk  together,  we  talk  together, 

My  love  and  I. 

My  neighbor,  they  say,  just  over  the  way, 
Has  a  wife  worth  a  dozen  of  mine : 

A  beautiful  thing,  she  can  dance  and  sing, 
And  while  away  her  time. 

Haughty  in  spirit,  purse-proud  and  high, 

Her  fretted  steeds  go  dashing  by. 

We  walk  together,  we  talk  together, 
My  love  and  I. 

She  is  not  fair,  no  ringlets  of  hair 

Fall  bewitchingly  over  her  brow, 
But  this  do  I  know,  that  wherever  I  go 

She  is  more  than  my  life  to  me  now. 
She  paints  the  blue  of  our  household  sky. 
As  the  hours  of  toil  go  merrily  by ; 
We  walk  together,  we  talk  together, 
My  love  and  I. 

She  brought  no  wealth  save  the  boon  of  health, 

And  a  cheek  of  rosy  hue, 
A  spirit  kind,  and  a  wealth  of  mind, 

That  is  given  to  the  few ; 

There's  a  summer  warmth  in  the  blue  of  her  eye, 
That  tells  that  a  twinkle  of  mirth  is  nigh. 
We  walk  together,  we  talk  together, 
Mv  love  and  I. 


ESTHER    KENT    (SMEDLEY). 


121 


A  household  joy  is  our  petted  boy, 

A  beautiful  link  in  our  band ; 
A  rainbow  of  light  on  the  sky  of  night, 

A  dream  of  a  happier  land. 
In  evening  rambles  he  frolicks  by, 
With  a  world  of  joy  in  his  laughing  eye. 
We  walk  together,  we  talk  together, 
My  love  and  I. 

But  shadows  will  come  in  the  brightest  home, 

And  troubles  gather  around, 
And  eyes  so  bright,  and  forms  of  light, 

Lie  silent  within  the  ground.  « 

But  oh,  I  trust  in  the  world  on  high, 
On  the  shore  of  the  river  drawing  nigh, 
To  walk  together,  to  talk  together, 
My  love  and  I. 


AFTER  THE   BATTLE. 


ATHER  them  up,  the  dying  and  the  dead, 
Let  no  one  be  forgotten,  no  not  one : 

That  face  you  passed,  so  worn  and  battle-red, 
If  not  my  boy,  he  is  some  mother's  son, 
Her  tried,  her  trusted  one. 


Ah,   how    he    bleeds !    quick,    stanch    that    dreadful 

wound, 

Put  back  those  matted  ringlets  of  soft  hair ; 
How  pale  he  grows !  list  to  the  lingering  sound, — 
He  murmurs  "  mother"  in  his  dying  prayer. 
How  soft  his  brow  and  fair  ! 


There,  press  a  kiss  upon  his  pale  young  face  ; 

There  are  no  stripes  upon  his  army  blue ; 
But  then,  I  ween,  he  never  knew  disgrace, 

But  fought  his  battle  as  a  hero  true, 
One  of  the  faithful  few. 


122  ESTHER    KENT    (SMEDLEY). 

And  let  us  on,  the  roll  is  scarce  begun ; 

Oh,  see  the  bloody  piles  of  fallen  slain  ! 
He  must  be  here,  alas  !  my  darling  son, 

And  shall  I  never  hear  thy  voice  again, 
Or  list  thee  breathe  my  name  ? 

Here  was  his  corps,  and  there  he  bravely  stood 
Upon  that  knoll  that  overlooks  the  mine, 

And  charged  the  foe  through  human  seas  of  blood 
And  ghastly  corpses  on  that  fatal  line, — 
Christ,  these  are  martyrs  thine  ! 

Quiclc  !  chaplain,  here,  come  raise  this  auburn  head. 

My  dear,  brave  boy,  and  was  it  thus  with  thee  ? 
He  breathes  not,  not  a  murmur — he  is  dead. 

Oh,  Percy,  such  a  sleep  were  sweet  to  me 
Beside  this  troubled  sea ! 

Was  it  for  this  I  bore  thee  to  my  breast, 
The  fond  fulfilment  of  maternal  prayer, 

And  sang  my  lullabies  above  thy  rest, 

And  smoothed  thy  brow,  to  me  divinely  fair, 
These  golden  locks  of  hair  ? 

Was  it  for  this  I  taught  thy  little  feet 

To  tread  alone  the  brambled  walks  among? 

Was  it  for  this  mine  ear  had  learned  to  greet 
The  first  sweet  lispings  of  thine  infant  tongue, 
To  sing  the  songs  I  sung  ? 

Oh,  question  not,  be  still,  my  throbbing  heart ! 

God's  great  intent  no  human  eye  can  see ; 
Enough  to  know,  dear  Percy,  we  must  part ; 

Life's  better  portion  is  bequeathed  to  thee. 
Watch  thou,  my  child,  for  me  ! 

Oh,  I  had  hoped  in  the  long  years  gone  by, 
When  thou  didst  frolic  on  the  verdant  lawn, 

That  these  fair  hands  might  close  in  death  mine  eye. 
Now  is  it  left  for  me  alone  to  mourn 
My  Percy,  dead  and  gone  ! 


ESTHER    KENT   (SMEDLEY).  123 


Wilt  thou  not  speak  but  one  sweet  word  to-night  ? 

Call  me  but  mother  in  the  olden  tone. 
One  look  of  love  from  thy  blue  eyes  of  light, 

One  fond  caress,  thine  arms  about  me  thrown, 
Would  ease  my  heart's  deep  moan  ! 

Ah,  nevermore  !  he  stirs  not,  not  a  breath  ; 

Beloved,  rest !  I  soon  shall  join  the  throng. 
God  comforteth  in  the  still  hour  of  death, 

And  thou  art  near — I  hear  the  heavenly  song, — 
'Twill  not  be  very  long  ! 


BRING  FLOWERS. 

RING  me  flowers,  sweet  and  fair  ; 
This  the  essence  of  my  prayer, 
Let  them  blossom  everywhere. 

Pluck  them  for  the  sufferer's  room, 
Let  them  shed  their  sweet  perfume, 
Smooth  the  pathway  to  the  tomb. 

Bring  me  flowers  when  I  die ; 
When  all  earthly  pleasures  fly, 
Let  them  in  my  coffin  lie. 

Let  them  blossom  o'er  my  tomb ; 
Chase  away  each  cloud  of  gloom, 
Home  of  one  eternal  bloom. 

Bring  me  flowers,  sweet  and  fair  ; 
This  the  essence  of  my  prayer, 
Let  them  blossom  everywhere. 


124  ANNE    F.  KENT    (BRADLEY). 


ANNE  F.  KENT  (BRADLEY). 

ALICE    GARY. 

ILL  it  be  joy  to  thee  in  the  hereafter, 

Sweet  singer,  in  the  lowly  vales  of  song, 
To  know  that  gentle  hearts  and  loving  faces 
Shall  keep  thy  memory  green  as  shady  places, 
Through  the  hot  dryness  of  the  summer  long  ? 

The  spring  is  near  us,  and  the  wakened  pulses 

Of  the  numb  earth  shall  thrill  with  life  again  ; 
The  small  sweet  flowers  thou  sangst  of  in  thy  numbers 
Shall  waken  as  a  child  from  pleasant  slumbers, 
And  for  thy  smiling  welcome  look  in  vain. 

There  have  been  grander  lyres  than  thine,  sweet  singer, 

And  higher  flights  of  more  impassioned  song; 
But  the  clear  utterance  of  the  river's  motion 
May  touch  when  the  loud  eloquence  of  ocean 
In  stormy  anthems  may  have  failed  to  move. 

Thine  may  not  be  the  poet's  wreath  immortal, 
Thy  modest  hope  had  scarcely  climbed  so  high ; 

Yet  the  small  light  flung  out  against  disaster, 

The  talent  used  in  honor  for  the  Master, 
Leave  a  sweet  memory  that  is  slow  to  die. 

Oh,  standing  on  the  jasper  sea,  whose  waters 

Mirror  the  glory  of  that  promised  land, 
How  shall  the  darks  of  life  be  lightened  over, 
And  clearly  shall  the  doubting  soul  discover 
How  good  the  labor  of  the  faithful  hand  ! 

Hearts  that  have  never  seen  thy  life's  devotion 

Have  heard  through  word  of  thine  the  upward  call, 
And  the  low  mound  that  covers  what  was  human 
Of  the  dear  poet,  and  the  dearer  woman, 
Must  be  a  spot  where  holy  tears  shall  fall. 


ANNE   F.  KENT   (BRADLEY). 


CONTRITION. 

> 

SAW  a  young  man  by  his  father's  bier; 
His  brow  was  darkened,  and  his  look  was 

wild ; 

I  knew  that  he  had  been  a  wayward  child, 
Though  not  a  word  was  said,  nor  dropped  a  tear. 

Yet  there  was  settled  anguish  in  his  eye, 
As  if  deep  feelings  swept  across  his  breast; 
I  knew  that  he  must  feel  that  long  unrest, 

Though  summer  suns  should  count  a  century. 

A  maiden  stands  beside  a  mother's  bed  ; 

The  call  was  sudden  that  had  brought  her  there ; 

Her  gaze  was  one  of  anxious  fear  and  care ; 
"  She  cannot  live  an  hour  more,"  they  said. 

She  knelt  and  strove  convulsively  to  pray ; 
The  pale  face  whitened,  and  upon  the  dead 
She  bowed  in  agony,  and,  sobbing,  said, 

"  I  spake  so  harshly,  and  but  yesterday." 

There  is  a  little  golden  head  that  lies 

Upon  a  snowy  couch  ;  an  hour  ago. 

He  frolicked  on  the  garden  green  below, 
And  shot  bright  glances  from  his  laughing  eyes. 

Here  are  two  hearts  that  shudder,  but  the  tide 
Is  wild  in  one,  for  sad,  but  true,  his  hand, 
And  he  a  father,  struck  him  in  command, 

And  thrust  him  forward  where  he,  falling,  died. 

A  husband  stands  beside  a  new-made  grave  ; 
His  is  no  petty  sorrow ;  he  has  lost 
His  compass,  where  the  ship  is  tempest-tossed, 

And  his,  alas  !  was  once  the  power  to  save. 

Her  patient  love,  that  murmured  not  at  pain, 
Once  disregarded,  moves  the  man  to  tears : 
"  How  have  I  robbed  her  of  her  human  years, 

And  lost  what  earth  can  never  give  again." 


126  ANNE    F.  KENT   (BRADLEY). 

There  are  sad  tidings  in  the  stifled  air, 

And  pale  lips  stammer  forth  a  fearful  word : 
"  Your  friend  is  dying  at  the  lower  ford  ; 

His  steed  took  fright ;  there  is  no  time  to  spare." 

He,  dying, — he,  whose  parting  was  so  cold, 
And  mine  so  cruel, — can  it  be  too  late  ? 
Hasten,  oh,  hasten  !  ere  we  reach  the  gate 

"  The  song  is  ended  and  the  story  told." 

Oh,  faithful  friend,  misunderstood,  for  whom 
My  heart  has  had  its  yearnings  all  the  day, 
Why  did  we  sever  in  this  heartless  way, 

Never,  perchance,  to  meet  this  side  the  tomb  ? 

For  war's  red  cloud  is  round  thee,  and  I  see 

In  thought's  low  trances,  danger's  threat'ning  form 
Draw  near  to  still  the  pulse  that  now  is  warm, 

And  leave  me  only  bitter  memory. 

Thus  do  we  heap  remorse  with  careless  hand, 
Knowing  that  "  life's  a  shadow  ;"  still  we  say 
The  cruel  word,  that  ere  the  close  of  day 

May  strike  the  flint  unto  the  slumbering  brand. 

Grief  of  itself  is  keen  enough — the  loss, 

The  sad  vacuity,  the  cheerless  gloom  ; 

But  deep  repentance  o'er  a  loved  one's  tomb 
Bows  down  the  spirit  with  life's  heaviest  cross. 

God  gives  and  takes.     What  seems  to  us  his  wrath, 
And  stunning  vengeance,  is  the  fruit  of  seed 
Which  our  own  hands  have  sown,  the  word  or  deed 

That  grows  a  thorn  along  our  bleeding  path. 

Nay,  ask  not  from  such  sorrows  to  be  spared, 
But  rather  shape  thy  prayer,  "  O  Father,  give 
Patience  and  strength,  that  I  may  daily  live 

For  every  dispensation  well  prepared." 


ANNE    F.  KENT   (BRADLEY).  I2/ 


SWEET  AGNES. 

HE  silence  of  night  fell  o'er  her, 

Sweet  Agnes,  sitting  alone, 
Her  light  eyes  dusk  with  the  shadows 
That  played  on  the  old  door-stone. 


She  had  braided  her  hair  so  often 

For  the  one  who  never  came ; 
So  long  had  her  heart  been  breathing 

That  still  unuttered  name. 

Ten  years  from  to-night  he  had  spoken 
As  only  one  friend  can  speak  ; 

Ten  years  from  to-night  she  had  listened, 
With  the  love-blush  on  her  cheek. 

How  slowly  the  years  had  glided, 

How  wearily  passed  the  time, 
Since  he  sailed  for  that  far-off  country, 

The  land  of  the  golden  clime  ! 

And  to  her  who  had  lived  on  his  presence 

No  tidings  backward  flew, 
Save  a  dream  of  a  foundering  vessel, 

And  a  desolate  shipwrecked  crew. 

From  eyes  that  were  wild  with  terror, 
Through  lips  that  were  frantic  in  prayer, 

The  face  that  her  maidenhood  cherished 
Looked  out  in  its  great  despair ; 

But  wilder  the  winds  and  the  waters, 
And  fainter  the  hope  that  could  save, 

Till  down  through  the  angry  billows 
He  sinks  to  a  watery  grave. 

Yet  the  vision  of  night  was  forgotten 
In  brighter  dreams  of  the  day, 

As  she  pictured  him  home  returning, 
Self-chiding  his  long  delay. 


128  ANNE   F.  KENT   (BRADLEY). 


Again  in  his  manly  beauty 

He  stands  at  her  father's  door, 
And  claims  as  reward  for  his  exile, 

The  one  that  shall  leave  him  no  more. 

And  the  years  through  her  dreaming  sweep  onward, 

And  the  roses  pale  on  her  cheek, 
And  the  brown  of  her  tresses  is  mingled 

With  many  a  silver  streak. 

Oh,  wonderful  heart  of  a  woman  ! 

Oh,  love  that  is  fed  on  a  breath  ! 
Sweet  Agnes,  thy  dream  is  unfolding, 

Through  the  mystical  changes  of  death. 


THE   LAST   MORNING. 

IFT  up  the  curtain,  dearest, 

That  the  morning  light  may  shine 
Once  more  upon  us,  where  all  night 

My  hand  has  lain  in  thine; 
This  weary  watching  soon  must  end, 

And  minister  no  more 
That  loving  hand,  whose  kindly  touch 
A  blessing  ever  bore. 

Raise  me  a  little  higher,  love, 

That  I  may  better  see 
The  breaking  day,  whose  sun  shall  set 

In  heavenly  light  for  me; 
Supported  in  thy  tender  arms, 

God's  mercy  seems  to  be 
A  bridge  of  love,  to  link  this  life 

With  his  eternity. 

Oh,  sweet  hath  been  this  dream  of  love. 
And  sweet  should  be  its  close, 

The  full  bright  day  that  folds  in  peace 
The  curtain  of  repose. 


ANNE    F.  KENT    (BRADLEY). 


Thou  hast  been  everything  to  me, 

The  truest,  tenderest,  best, 
And  no  regretful  memory 

Should  stir  thy  spirit's  rest. 

• 
Nay,  weep  not,  I  would  have  thee  strong, 

To  meet  the  coming  blow  ; 
The  longest  life  is  never  long,  — 

To  welcome  thee,  I  go  ; 
And  having  rendered  back  in  love 

The  life  thou  couldst  not  save, 
Think  of  me,  if  thou  wilt,  but  make 

No  idol  of  my  grave. 


THE   AIDE'S   STORY. 

AN    INCIDENT   OF   THE   WAR   OF   THE   REBELLION. 

I  HERE  were  crimson    pillars   resting   on    the 

sun's  departing  light, 
As  we  journeyed  on  in  silence  to  possess  the 

captured  height. 
We  were  miles  this  side  the  city  that  our  battery-boys 

had  shelled, 
And  the  march  would  last  till  midnight,  at  the  steady 

pace  we  held. 
Battle-worn  and  weak  and  weary,  at  the  general's  side 

I  rode, 
Honored  by  his  trust  and  friendship,  valued  next  to 

home  and  God. 
It  had  been  a  desperate  struggle;  for  three  days  we 

fought  and  bled, 
And  our  manly  ranks  were  wasted  with  the  wounded 

and  the  dead. 
We  had  laid  our   fallen  heroes   in   a  soldier's   hasty 

grave, 
With   a   simple   pencil   record    of    the    "  unreturning 

brave. ' ' 
Many  of  our  best  and  truest  in  that  bitter  strife  had 

died  ; 
Hearts   were   aching   with    emotions    that   we    vainly 

strove  to  hide ; 


I3O  ANNE    F.   KENT   (BRADLEY). 

So  we  held  our  march  in  silence,  but  a  skeleton  in 

form, 
Keeping  many  a  sad  reminder  of  the  losses  we  had 

borne. 
Brave  young  forms  were  thin  and  wasted,  worn  with 

suffering  and  disease, 
More,  perhaps,  in  need  of  pity  than  the  dead  are  such 

as  these, 
Who  have  borne  the  brunt  of  battle,  passed  unscathed 

the  fiery  storm, 
All  the  horrid  din  of  memories   pulsing  thro'  them 

quick  and  warm. 
Vacant  ranks  where  brother  comrades  kept  no  more 

the  measured  tramp, 
Hands  in  theirs  but  yester  morning  with  the  clammy 

death-dews  damp. 
Crowning  all  the  pain  and  sorrow  that  had  held  their 

course  that  day 
Was  the  crushing  grief  that  settled  on  the  homesteads 

far  away. 
Now  and  then  a  straggling   soldier  by  the   roadside 

met  the  eye, 
And   the  general's   brow  grew  darker  as  we  rode  in 

silence  by ; 
So  we  urged  our  horses  forward,  following  close  upon 

the  rear, 
Better  to  inspect  the  matter  that  was  growing  painful 

here. 
"It  will  never  do,"  he  murmured;,  "that  command 

must  be  obeyed  ; 
They  have  suffered  much,  poor  fellows,  but  we  cannot 

be  delayed." 
Then  a  shadow  crossed  his  forehead,  and  he  bridled  in 

his  steed, — 

'Twas  a  pale  face  lifted  to  us,  and  a  boyish  form  in 
deed. 

He  had  broken  ranks  that  moment,  with  a  slow,  de 
spairing  tread, 
And  his  pallid  face  resembled  less  the  living  than  the 

dead; 
So  I  thought,  perhaps  none  other.     Spake  the  general, 

firm  but  kind, — 
"Are  you  tired,  my  good  fellow,  that  you  loiter  here 

behind?" 


ANNE    F.  KENT    (BRADLEY). 


Pitying  Christ  !  a  brow  was  lifted,  almost  girlish,  thin 

and  fair, 
Something   of    his   mother's   presence    fell   on    every 

warrior  there. 
"  1  am  very  tired,  general"  said  the  boy,  with  tearful 

eye; 
"I  have  tried  to  make  the  journey,  but  must  either 

stop  or  die." 
Quickly  from  his  steed  dismounting,  ere  another  word 

was  said, 
"Give  your  musket,  my  poor  fellow,  I  will  take  the 

ranks  instead." 
Mount  in  haste,  my  aides  will  guide  you;"  and  the 

honored  form  we  loved, 
Ere  we  thought,  or  said,  or  acted,  in  the  steady  column 

moved. 
Mute,  astounded,  hardly  knowing  what  to  do  or  what 

to  say, 
We,  who  would  have  died  to  save  him,  kept  the  tenor 

of  our  way. 
God  !  thy  valiant  sons  are  living  men,  with  hearts  as 

true  as  steel  ; 
Yet  shall  turn  the  scale  of  fortune  for  the  long  im 

perilled  weal. 
When    the   general   over    thousands    takes   a   private 

soldier's  place, 
There  are  chances  of  salvation  for  our  weak,  corrupted 

race. 
As  in  speechless  thought  we  journeyed,  there  was  many 

a  moistened  eye 
Raised  in  dread  solicitation  to  the  tempest-gathering 

sky. 
On  the  pommel  of  his  saddle  wearily  had  leaned  the 

boy, 
Murmuring  of  home  and  mother,  with  a  child's  ecstatic 

joy; 

But  when  to  the  tent  we  bore  him,  what  we  thought 

but  sleep  and  rest 
Ended  in  the  pale  hands  folding  on  a  cold  and  pulse 

less  breast. 
We  were  striving   to  restore  'him,  when  the  general 

sought  his  tent, 
And  in  undisguised  emotions  o'er  the  lifeless  soldier 

bent. 


132  MORDECAI    LARKIN. 

It  may  be  an  idle  fancy,  I  should  surely  know  that 

face, 
But  the  stumbling  feet  of  memory  strive  in  vain  a  clew 

to  trace. 
From  his  breast  I  loosed  a  portrait,  fastened  with  a 

ribbon  band, 
And,  with  "This  may  be  his  mother,"  dropped  it  in 

the  general's  hand. 
Long,  intently  bending  o'er  it,  sat  that  man  of  iron 

nerve. 
Calm  amid  the  cannon's  rattle,  dowered  with  a  proud 

reserve ; 
And  such  tears  as  shame  not  manhood  coursed  adown 

his  swarthy  cheek, 
While  emotions  sad  and  tender  shook  the  voice  that 

strove  to  speak. 
"  Bear  his  body  to  his  comrades,  and  request  them,  for 

my  sake, 
That  the  tender  ritual  honors  in  his  burial  they  shall 

make. 
Lay  him  to  his  dreamless  slumber  in  some  sweet,  retired 

place ; 
Write  his  name  and  age  in  letters  that  the  years  shall 

not  efface. 
May  the  grass  grow  green  above  him,  and  the  wild 

birds  warble  there  ; 
I  will  send  this  to  his  kindred,  with  a  locket  of  his 

hair. 
You  shall  have  the  story  some  time,  but  our  midnight 

watch  must  end  ; 
Pardon  me,  that  soldier's  mother  was  my  manhood's 

truest  friend." 


MORDECAI   LARKIN. 


THE  subject  of  this  sketch  was  born  in  Concord  Township, 
Delaware  County,  Pa.,  January  31,  1797.  He  was  the  son  of 
John  and  Martha  Larkin,  worthy  members  of  the  Society  of 
Friends.  His  early  life  was  spent  upon  his  father's  farm.  His 
education  was  obtained  at  the  public  schools  of  the  neighborhood, 
where  he  learned  the  ordinary  branches ;  but  being  fond  of  reading 


MORDECAI    LARKIN.  133 


and  study,  he  acquired  an  extensive  knowledge  of  literary  and 
scientific  subjects,  which  served  him  in  good  stead  in  after  life. 

At  the  age  of  sixteen  years  he  was  apprenticed  to  Nathan  Pen- 
nell,  of  Chichester,  with  whom  he  learned  the  milling  business. 
In  1820  he  married  Sarah  Rogers;  they  were  the  parents  of  five 
sons  and  one  daughter.  In  1825  he  purchased  a  farm  and  mills 
in  Upper  Uwchlan  Township,  where  he  resided  for  many  years. 
Subsequently  he  removed  to  East  Brandywine  Township,  where 
he  resided  for  several  years,  and  in  1870  retired  from  business  and 
removed  to  Downingtown,  where  he  died,  March  II,  1884.  Mr. 
Larkin  was  a  diligent  reader  and  student,  and  deeply  interested 
in  the  natural  sciences,  philosophy,  and  metaphysical  inquiries. 
He  was  the  author  of  many  fine  poems  written  in  the  latter  part 
of  his  life. 


THE   WORKS   OF   GOD. 

[AREN'T   divine !    whose   power  and    wisdom 

sways 
Earth's  varied  scenes  and  heaven's  unbounded 

maze, 

Where  countless  suns  in  endless  glory  shine, 
No  freak  of  chance,  but  planned  by  skill  divine. 
Through   depths   of  space,    through   ether's   trackless 

bounds, 

These  shining  globes  pursue  their  ceaseless  rounds. 
Attractive  bands  engirdle  every  zone  ; 
Round  the  vast  realm  protection's  arm  is  thrown ; 
Through  fields  of  space  Thy  all  embracing  clasp 
Holds  worlds  and  systems  with  unfailing  grasp. 
Science  may  gaze,  and,  erring,  judge  afar 
Thy  distant  throne,  and  Thou  the  guiding  star, 
While  truth  and  wisdom  teach  this  just  reply, — 
Thy  throne  is  boundless,  and  Thy  presence  nigh. 
The  air,  the  earth,  and  ocean,  each  display, 
Through  myriad  forms,  life's  all-pervading  sway. 
Can  human  thought  conceive  the  bounds  of  space, 
Or  teach  the  number  of  each  varied  race? 
Progressive  life,  how  limitless  thy  reign  ! 
Where  matter  spreads  extends  thy  wide  domain. 
Refinement,  progress,  ever  meet  our  view ; 
Thus  dying  forms  dissolve,  to  rise  anew. 


1 34  JOHN    E.   LEONARD,  LL.D. 

On  earth  around  what  smiling  beauty  reigns, 
High  woody  mountains  and  delightful  plains, 
Where  winding  rivers  ever  downward  roam, 
To  meet,  embrace,  and  die  in  ocean's  foam. 
Does  God  design  His  secrets  to  conceal  ? 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars  His  perfect  thoughts  reveal, 
His  revelations  far  and  wide  outspread ; 
Who  scorns  the  page  is  infidel  indeed  ! 
Eternal  volume  !  op'ed  for  wondering  eyes. 
Great  theme  of  science  !     Bible  of  the  wise  ! 
While  zealots  wrangle,  churches  disagree, 
These  glorious  works  lure  angels  up  to  Thee  ! 
Through  passing  time  the  mighty  plan  has  stood, 
Upheld  by  wisdom  and  triumphant  good  ; 
As  trembling  dew-drops  to  the  ocean  flee, 
Thy  earthly  children  trust  and  fly  to  Thee. 
Immortal  source  !  from  whom  our  bounties  flow, 
Can  thought  conceive  the  sumless  debt  we  owe  ? 
In  realms  celestial,  when  transfer'd  from  this, 
May  heavenly  anthems  swell  the  chords  of  bliss. 


JOHN   E.   LEONARD,   LL.D. 

JOHN  EDWARDS  LEONARD,  son  of  John  E.  Leonard,  was 
born  near  Fairville,  September  22,  1845.  He  was  educated 
at  Phillips  Academy,  Exeter,  N.  H.,  and  Harvard  College,  where 
he  graduated  in  1867.  He  studied  law  in  Germany,  and  received 
the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Laws  at  Heidelberg  University.  He 
settled  in  Louisiana,  where  he  was  elected  district  attorney,  and 
soon  afterwards  appointed  judge  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  the 
State,  which  office  he  filled  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  people.  He 
was  elected  to  Congress  from  the  Fifth  District  of  Louisiana  in 
1876,  and  died  in  Cuba,  March  15,  1878,  while  still  a  member  of 
Congress,  while  on  an  important  government  mission.  His  re 
mains  were  buried  at  West  Chester  by  a  committee  of  the  House 
of  Representatives.  Mr.  Leonard  was  a  fine  scholar  and  a  bril 
liant  poet.  He  was  the  author  of  a  small  volume  entitled  "  Early 
Poems,"  which  he  dedicated  to  his  father,  and  of  the  "  Louisiana 
Federal  Digest,"  and  also  a  number  of  brilliant  essays  and  elo 
quent  orations.  He  married  Miss  Ella  Burbank,  of  St.  Paul, 
Minn.,  who  died  in  1875,  leaving  two  sons. 


JOHN   E.  LEONARD,  LL.D.  135 


MEMORY   AND   HOPE. 

HEN  travellers  leave  their  homes  to  go 

Across  the  desert's  burning  sand, 
How  brightly  to  their  memories  glow 
The  green  fields  of  their  native  land. 

The  laughing  brook,  the  balmy  skies, 

The  mead  with  wild  flowers  scattered  o'er, 

Are  teeming  to  their  longing  eyes 
With  joys  they  never  knew  before; 

And  fainting  on  the  cheerless  way, 
Beneath  the  sun's  relentless  beams, 

They  see  before  them,  far  away, 
The  waters  of  refreshing  streams. 

Alas  !  'tis  but  a  mocking  dream  ; 

The  weary  waste  is  traversed  o'er, 
But  still  the  cool  and  crystal  stream 

Is  ever  distant  as  before. 

Thus,  save  the  careless  days  of  youth, 
Our  life  is  but  a  round  of  sighs; 

Of  memories  fairer  than  the  truth, 
And  hopes  we  never  realize. 


SONG. 

FROM   THE   FRENCH. 

HEN  the  moon  comes  over  the  mountain-top, 
And  brings  the  night-wind  with  her, 

The  fairies  gain  my  window-pane, 
And  whisper,  "Hither,  hither!" 

They  tell  me  how  their  sisters  fair 
And  the  moon  have  come  together ; 

Their  ships  are  dancing  on  the  sea, 
Themselves  upon  the  heather. 


136  CHARLTON    T.  LEWIS. 

Oh,  fairies,  fairies,  long  ago 

You  spoiled  my  life's  endeavor; 

You  bound  my  spirit  to  the  night, 
And  won  my  heart  forever ! 

My  cheek  is  pale  and  wan,  alas  ! 

My  soul  like  autumn  weather  ; 
I'm  standing  all  night  at  the  pane, 

And  gazing  on  the  heather. 

And  I  hear  a  voice  in  the  forest  say, 
The  stricken  leaf  must  wither ; 

And  soon  'twill  gain  my  window-pane, 
And  whisper,  "Hither,  hither!" 


WEARINESS. 

HE  child  that  plays  through  some  long  day  in 
June 

Grows  tired  and  weary  of  its  own  delight ; 
And  sweeter  than  the  pleasures  of  the  noon 

Are  the  deep,  dreamless  slumbers  of  the  night. 

So  he  whose  life  is  one  long  summer's  day 
Still  finds  at  last  how  little  worth  it  is, 

And  fain  would  rest  him  on  the  flowery  way, 
To  drink  the  cup  of  sweet  forgetfulness. 


CHARLTON   T.  LEWIS. 


CHARLTON  T.  LEWIS,  son  of  Joseph  J.  and  Mary  (Miner) 
Lewis,  and  grandson  of  Enoch  Lewis,  was  born  in  West  Chester, 
February  25,  1834.  He  was  educated  at  Yale  College,  and  grad 
uated  in  1853  in  the  class  with  Wayne  McVeagh,  Andrew  J. 
White,  the  poet,  E.  C.  Stedman,  and  others.  He  studied  law  in 
West  Chester  with  his  father,  but  in  1854  began  to  study  for  the 
ministry  of  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church,  and  for  a  few  years 
was  a  member  of  the  Philadelphia  Conference.  In  1857  he 
taught  as  professor  of  languages  in  the  State  Normal  University  in 
Bloomington,  111. ;  in  1858  he  became  professor  of  mathematics, 


CHARLTON   T.  LEWIS.  137 


and  in  1 860  of  Greek,  in  the  Troy  University,  New  York,  and  in 
1863  was  appointed  Deputy  Commissioner  of  Internal  Revenue 
in  Washington,  his  father  being  then  commissioner.  The  next 
year  he  was  admitted  to  the  bar  of  New  York,  and  has  been 
practising  law  in  that  city  ever  since,  except  that  for  four  years  he 
was  editorial  writer  and  managing  editor  of  the  New  York  Even 
ing  Post,  William  Cullen  Bryant  being  editor-in-chief. 

Mr.  Lewis  is  endowed  with  much  poetical  genius,  which,  had 
circumstances  permitted  him  to  cultivate  and  develop,  would 
have  given  him  a  place  among  the  foremost  poetical  writers  of  his 
time.  He  was  class  poet  at  Yale  College  in  1853,  and  read  a 
poem  at  the  class  reunion  in  1883. 


TELEMACHUS. 

A  certain  Telemachus  had  cherished  a  life  of  seclusion.  For 
this  reason,  having  set  out  from  the  East,  he  went  to  Rome,  where 
he  witnessed  that  wicked  ceremony,  gladiatorial  games.  When 
he  entered  the  arena,  he  went  forward  and  attempted  to  cause 
those  bearing  arms  against  each  other  to  desist.  But  the  beholders 
of  the  blood-guiltiness  were  enraged,  and  having  countenanced  the 
revelry  of  the  god  (Bacchus)  rejoicing  in  that  carnage,  they  stoned 
to  death  the  guardian  (Telemachus)  of  peace.  But  when  the  ex 
cellent  king  heard  this  he  enrolled  him  with  the  triumphant 
martyrs  and  abolished  the  sinful  spectacle. —  Theodorefs  Ecclesiasti 
cal  History,  vol.  xxvi. 

MUSED  on  Claudian's  tinselled  eulogies, 
And  turned  to  seek,  in  other  dusty  tomes, 
Through  the  wild  waste  of  those  degenerate 

days, 

Some  living  word,  some  utterance  of  the  heart ; 
Till,  as  when  one  lone  peak  of  Jura  flames 
With  sudden  sunbeams  breaking  through  the  mist, 
So,  from  the  dull  page  of  Theodoret, 
A  flash  of  splendor  rends  the  clouds  of  life, 
And  bares  to  view  the  awful  throne  of  love. 

The  bishop's  tale  is  meagre,  but  as  leaven 
It  works  in  thoughts  that  rise  and  fill  the  soul. 

Telemachus,  a  Greek,  far  in  the  East, 
Gave  all  for  Christ,  and  led  a  life  of  prayer, 
With  longings  still  for  Rome,  Christ's  capital. 
He  waits  in  Christ's  name,  with  an  open  door, 


138  CHARLTON   T.  LEWIS. 

To  cheer  the  passing  pilgrim,  wash  his  feet, 
And  break  the  loaf,  and  gather  from  his  lips 
Signs  of  the  Kingdom  ;  till  one  comes  who,  late 
Touched  by  the  holy  hands  of  Innocent, 
Still  wears  unchanged  from  Rome,  Christ's  capital, 
His  garments  and  his  thoughts.     Telemachus 
With  reverent  service  watches  for  his  words, 
As  beams  of  light  from  God's  own  moon  and  sun, 
The  throne  of  Constantine  and  Peter's  chair. 

The  Coliseum  is  his  theme,  between 
The  throne  of  Constantine  and  Peter's  chair: 
More  horrid  shrine  than  Moloch's,  when  he  set 
His  temple  right  against  the  temple  of  God, 
For  murder  there  was  worship,  here  is  sport. 

Here  had  he  seen  the  gladiator  fall, 
Writhing  in  death,  while  throngs  enraptured  gazed, 
And  mercy's  breath  is  vain  as  his  last  sigh 
Drowned  in  the  plaudits  of  unpitying  Rome. 

Telemachus  gives  ear,  while  from  his  soul 
Fades  that  bright  vision  of  the  city  of  God, 
End  and  delight  of  Christian  pilgrimage. 
Its  sun  is  darkened  and  its  moon  is  blood ; 
And  where  he  looks  for  Rome,  Christ's  capital, 
He  finds  another  Rome,  the  mouth  of  hell. 

His  thoughts  are  chaos,  till  from  out  their  depth 

A  firmament  of  love  arising  parts 

The  waters  from  the  waters,  life  above, 

Despair  below,  obedient  to  the  voice 

That  spoke  creation,  but  at  Pilate's  bar 

Was  silent ;  and  his  soul  goes  forth'in  prayer: 

"  Let  not  thy  wrath  be  kindled,  though  they  rage — 

The  heathen — in  thy  capital,  nor  stir 

The  sword  of  Gideon  and  the  pit  of  Kore. 

But  as  when  heaven  was  darkened,  and  the  earth 

Was  shaken  by  thy  sorrow,  angel  hosts 

Hovered  above  thy  foes,  and  hell  beneath 

Was  moved  to  meet  them  coming,  thou  didst  cry, 

'  Forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do  !' 

So  now  I  see  heaven's  armies  in  thy  train, 


CHARLTON   T.  LEWIS.  m        139 

Thine  eyes  a  flame  of  fire,  and  dipped  in  blood 
Thy  vesture,  and  a  sharp  sword  from  thy  mouth 
To  smite  the  nations,  as  thou  comest  to  tread 
The  wine-press  of  the  fierceness  and  the  wrath 
Of  God,  and  on  thy  vesture  and  thy  thigh 
Is  written  'King  of  kings,'  and  none  can  stand 
Before  thee ;  but  upon  thy  hands  and  side 
Is  written  a  new  name  which  no  man  knows, 
With  power  to  still  the  fire  and  dull  the  sword 
And  stop  the  wine-press.     Yet  once  more  let  wrath 
Wait  upon  mercy,  for  that  name  is  love, 
And'  love  is  Lord  of  lords.     O  Word  of  God  ! 
Thou  who  was  silent,  scourged  at  Pilate's  bar, 
And — smitten  anew  in  whom  thou  diedst  to  save — 
Art  silent  now  in  Rome,  dost  speak  in  me. 
Yea,  through  me,  at  the  mouth  of  hell,  between 
The  throne  of  Constantine  and  Peter's  chair. 
Speak,  if  thou  wilt,  though  these  be  silent  still, 
For  lo  !  I  come  to  do  thy  will,  O  God  !" 

A  short  farewell,  and  with  his  leathern  scrip 

And  pilgrim  staff,  he  took  his  lonely  way, 

And  begged  his  bread  in  Christ's  name,  hiding  still 

His  purpose  in  his  heart.     Companionship 

Was  none,  save  that  the  moon,  lonely  as  he, 

Seemed  the  familiar  face  of  one  pursuing 

A  path  of  light,  unfaltering  in  God's  eye. 

Twice  waned,  thrice  waxed,  that  angel  form,  and  sunk, 

At  last,  full-orbed  behind  the  Capitol, 

Pale  in  the  first  beams  of  the  Christmas  morn 

That  lit  the  towers  of  Rome.     On  Tiber's  bank 

He  paused  a  while  to  wash  his  bleeding  feet, 

And  stay  his  heart  upon  the  word  within. 

The  city  awoke  before  him  ;  hour  by  hour 

Strange    faces   passed,    strange   garbs,    strange   voices 

raised 

In  praises  of  their  saviour  Stilicho, 
Till,  in  the  pilgrim's  soul,  his  Saviour  felt 
Again  the  loneliness  of  Calvary. 
They  swept  him  to  the  Forum,  where  a  wild 
Confusion  of  white  steeds  and  purple  robes 
Pressed  through  the  throng,  and,  charioted  high, 
Honorius  and  his  saviour  Stilicho 
Led  the  chained  Goths  in  triumph.     Then,  above 


I4O  CHARLTON    T.   LEWIS. 

The  clatter  of  sandals  and  the  clash  of  arms, 
The  din  of  hoof-beats  and  the  rumbling  wheels, 
Arose  an  eager  cry  of  multitudes, — 
"  On  to  the  Coliseum  :   the  games  !  the  games  !" 

To  the  stern  portals  of  that  wondrous  pile, 

As  one  drop  on  the  tide,  Telemachus 

Was  borne,  and  entered,  but  he  knew  not  how ; 

Nor  saw  nor  heard  the  thousands  as  they  passed 

Before  the  throne,  and  joined  in  loud  acclaim, — 

•'  Hail  to  thee,  Caesar,  happiest  and  best, 

Be  victory  thine  forever  !     Thy  tight  hand 

Is  Stilicho,  who  smites  the  foes  of  Rome : 

We  greet  Honorius  with  Stilicho." 

He  heard  not,  saw  not :  other  thousands  filled 

His  inner  sense  with  music  and  with  light, — 

Saints  who  in  pagan  days  had  met  their  Lord 

And  triumphed  over  death,  in  these  grim  walls. 

He  felt  the  soil,  long  drenched  with  martyrs'  blood, 

Send  healing  through  his  feet  to  all  his  frame. 

He  drank  the  air  that  trembled  with  the  joys 

Of  opening  Paradise,  and  bared  his  soul 

To  spirits  whispering,  "  Come  with  us  to-day  !" 

The  longings  of  his  life  were  satisfied. 

He  stood  at  last  in  Rome,  Christ's  capital, 

The  gate  of  heaven  and  not  the  mouth  of  hell. 

Suddenly,  rudely,  comes  disastrous  change. 

He  starts  and  gazes,  as  the  glory  of  saints 

Fades  round  him  and  the  angel  songs  are  stilled  : 

A  world  of  hatred  hides  the  throne  of  love ; 

Hell  opens  in  the  gleam  of  myriad  eyes 

Hungry  for  slaughter,  in  a  hush  that  tells 

How  in  each  heart  a  tiger  pants  for  blood. 

Into  the  vast  arena  files  a  band 

Of  Goths,  the  prisoners  of  Pollentia, — 

Freemen,  the  dread  of  Rome  but  yesterday, 

Now  doomed  as  slaves  to  wield  those  terrible  arms 

In  mutual  murder,  kill  and  die,  amid 

The  exultation  of  their  nation's  foes. 

Pausing  before  the  throne,  with  well-taught  lips 

They  utter  words  they  know  not ;  but  Rome  hears, — 

"  Caesar,  we  greet  thee  who  are  now  to  die  !" 

Then  part  and  line  the  lists ;  the  trumpet  blares 


CHARLTON    T.   LEWIS. 


For  the  onset,  sword  and  javelin  gleam,  and  all 
Is  clash  of  smitten  shields  and  glitter  of  arms. 

Without  the  tumult  one  of  mighty  limb 

And  towering  frame  stands  moveless  ;  never  yet 

A  nobler  captive  had  made  sport  for  Rome. 

Throngs  watch  that  eye  of  Mars,  Apollo's  grace, 

The  thews  of  Hercules,  in  cruel  hope 

That  ten  may  fall  before  him  ere  he  falls. 

They  bid  him  charge  :  he  moves  not  ;  shield  and  sword 

Sink  to  his  feet  ;  his  eyes  are  filled  with  light 

That  is  not  of  the  battle.     Three  draw  near, 

Whose  valor  or  despair  has  cut  a  path 

Through  the  thick  mass  of  combat,  and  their  swords, 

Reeking  with  carnage,  seek  a  victim  new, 

The  glory  of  whose  death  may  win  them  grace 

With  that  fierce  multitude.     Telemachus 

Gazes,  and  half  the  horror  turns  to  joy, 

As  the  fair  Goth  undaunted  bares  his  breast 

Before  the  butchers,  and  awaits  the  blow 

With  peaceful  brow,  a  firm  and  tender  lip, 

Quivering  as  with  a  breath  of  inward  prayer, 

And  hands  that  move  as  mindful  of  the  cross. 

And  with  a  mighty  cry,  "  Christ,  he  is  thine  ! 

He  is  my  brother  !     Help  !"     The  monk  leaps  forth, 

Gathers  in  hands  unarmed  the  points  of  steel, 

Throws  back  the  startled  warriors,  and  commands, 

"In  Christ's  name,  hold  !     Ye  people  of  Rome,  give 

ear  ! 

God  will  have  mercy  and  not  sacrifice. 
He  who  was  silent,  scourged  at  Pilate's  bar, 
And,  smitten  again  in  those  he  died  to  save, 
Is  silent  now  in  his  great  oracles, 
The  throne  of  Constantine  and  Peter's  chair, 
Speaks  thus  through  me  :   '  In  Rome,  my  capital, 
Let  love  be  lord,  and  close  the  mouth  of  hell. 
I  will  have  mercy  and  not  sacrifice.'  ' 

The  slaughter  paused,  he  ceased,  and  all  was  still. 
But  baffled  myriads  with  their  cruel  thumbs 
Point  earthward,  and  the  bloody  three  advance  : 
Their  swords  meet  in  his  heart.     Honorius 
Cries  "  Save,"  —  too  late,  he  is  already  safe,  — 
And  turns,  with  tears  like  Peter's,  to  proclaim 


142  SUSAN    LUKENS. 


The  festival  dissolved  ;  nor  from  that  hour 
Ever  again  did  Rome,  Christ's  capital, 
.Make  holiday  with  blood,  but,  hand  in  hand, 
The  throne  of  Constantine  and  Peter's  chair 
Honored  the  martyr-saint,  Telemachus, 
And  love  was  lord  and  closed  the  mouth  of  hell. 


SUSAN   LUKENS. 

SUSAN  LUKENS,  daughter  of  John  and  Hannah  Wilson,  was 
born  in  Whitemarsh  Township,  Montgomery  County,  Pa.,  January 
14,  1797,  and  was  educated  at  Westtown  Friends'  School.  She 
was  a  member  of  the  Society  of  Friends.  December  4,  1845,  sne 
married  Solomon  Lukens,  and  came  to  reside  with  her  husband 
near  Ercildoun.  She  died  January  I,  1873.  In  1849,  Solomon 
and  Susan  Lukens  went  to  the  establishment  of  the  Friends  at 
Tunessassah,  adjoining  the  reservation  of  the  Seneca  Indians  on 
the  Alleghany  River,  Cattaraugus  County,  N.Y.,  with  a  view 
of  promoting  the  concern  of  the  yearly  meeting  of  Friends  for  the 
civilization  of  the  Indians.  They  returned  to  their  home  in  1852, 
where  they  resided  during  the  remainder  of  their  lives.  Mrs. 
Lukens  wrote  poetry  at  an  early  age,  some  of  which  appeared  in 
the  magazines  of  that  day.  She  also  contributed  to  the  columns 
of  The  Liberator  and  other  anti-slavery  journals.  Though  not  a 
prolific,  she  was  a  pleasant,  writer.  Her  poem,  "  The  Painter  of 
Seville,"  is  very  popular,  and  justly  entitles  her  to  take  high  rank 
among  the  literati  of  America.  Her  writings  were  collected  by 
herself,  and  published  by  her  friends,  after  her  death,  in  a  small 
volume  entitled  "  Gleanings  at  Seventy-five." 


THE   PAINTER  OF  SEVILLE. 

Sebastian  Gomez,  better  known  as  the  Mulatto  of  Murillo,  was 
one  of  the  most  celebrated  painters  of  Spain.  There  may  yet  be 
seen  exhibited  in  Seville  the  picture  he  was  found  painting  by  his 
master,  with  a  number  of  others.  The  incident  related  in  the 
poem  occurred  about  the  year  1630. 

[WAS  morning  in  Seville,  and  brightly  beamed 

The  early  sunlight  in  one  chamber  there, 
Showing,    where'er    its     glowing     radiance 

gleamed, 

Rich  varied  beauty.     'Twas  the  study  where 
Murillo,  the  famed  painter,  came  to  share 


SUSAN   LUKENS.  143 


With  young  aspirants  his  long-cherished  art, 

To  prove  how  vain  must  be  the  teacher's  care 
Who  strives  his  unbought  knowledge  to  impart, 
The  language  of  the  soul,  the  feelings  of  the  heart ! 

The  pupils  came,  and,  glancing  round, 
Mendez  upon  his  canvass  found, 
Not  his  own  work  of  yesterday, 
But,  glowing  in  the  morning  ray, 
A  sketch  so  rich,  so  pure,  so  bright, 

It  almost  seemed  that  there  "were  given, 
To  glow  before  his  dazzled  sight, 

Tints  and  expressions  warm  from  heaven. 

'Twas  but  a  sketch, — the  Virgin's  head, — 
Yet  was  unearthly  beauty  shed 
Upon  the  mildly  beaming  face  ; 

The  lip,  the  eye,  the  flowing  hair, 
Had  separate,  yet  blended  grace ; 

A  poet's  brightest  dream  was  there ! 

Murillo  entered,  and,  amazed, 
On  the  mysterious  painting  gazed : 
"Whose  work  is  this?  speak,  tell  me  I  he 

Who  to  his  aid  such  power  can  call," 
Exclaimed  the  teacher,  eagerly, 

"  Will  yet  be  master  of  us  all. 
Would  I  had  done  it !  Ferdinand  ! 
Isturitz  !  Mendez  !  say,  whose  hand, 
Among  ye  all?"     With  half-breathed  sigh, 
Each  pupil  answered,  "  'Twas  not  I  !" 

"  How  came  it,  then?"  impatiently 
Murillo  cried  ;   "  but  we  shall  see 
E'er  long  into  this  mystery. 
Sebastian  !"     At  the  summons  came 

A  bright-eyed  slave, 
Who  trembled  at  the  stern  rebuke 

His  master  gave ; 

For,  ordered  in  that  room  to  sleep, 
And  faithful  guard  o'er  all  to  keep, 
Murillo  bade  him  now  declare 
What  rash  intruder  had  been  there ; 


144  SUSAN    LUKENS. 

And  threatened,  if  he  did  not  tell 
The  truth  at  once,  the  dungeon-cell. 

"Thou  answerest  not,"  Murillo  said — 
(The  boy  had  stood  in  speechless  fear) — 

"  Speak,  or '      At  last  he  raised  his  head, 

And  murmured,  "  No  one  has  been  here." 

"  'Tis  false  !"    Sebastian  bent  his  knee, 

And  clasped  his  hands  imploringly, 

And  said,  "  I  swear  it !  none  but  me  !" 

"  List,"  said  his  master.     "  I  would  know 

Who  enters  here, — there  have  been  found 

Befqre,  rough  sketches  strewn  around, 
By  whose  bold  hand  'tis  yours  to  show. 

See  that  to-night  strict  watch  you  keep, 

Nor  dare  to  close  your  eyes  in  sleep; 
If  on  to-morrow  morn  you  fail 

To  answer  what  I  ask, 
The  lash  shall  force  you, — do  you  hear? 

Hence  !  to  your  daily  task." 

*##         ###          *         *          # 

'Twas  midnight  in  Seville.     And  faintly  shone, 
From  one  small  lamp,  a  dim,  uncertain  ray 

Within  Murillo's  study  ;  all  were  gone 

Who  there,  in  pleasant  tasks,  or  converse  gay, 
Passed  cheerfully  the  morning  hours  away. 

'Twas  shadowy  gloom  and  breathless  silence  save, 
That  to  sad  thoughts  and  torturing  fears  a  prey, 

One  bright-eyed  boy  was  there,  Murillo's  little  slave. 

Almost  a  child,  that  boy  had  seen 

Not  thrice  five  summers  yet ; 
But  genius  marked  the  lofty  brow, 

O'er  which  his  locks  of  jet 
Profusely  curled  ;  his  cheeks'  dark  hue 
Proclaimed  the  warm  blood  flowing  through 
Each  throbbing  vein,  a  mingled  tide, 
To  Africa  and  Spain  allied. 

"  Alas  !  what  fate  is  mine?"  he  said  : 

"  The  lash,  if  I  refuse  to  tell 
Who  sketched  those  figures  ;  if  I  do, 

Perhaps  e'en  more,  the  dungeon-cell !" 


SUSAN    LUKENS.  145 


He  breathed  a  prayer  to  heaven  for  aid. 
It  came  !  for  soon  in  slumber  laid, 
He  slept  until  the  dawning  day 
Shed  on  his  humble  couch  its  ray. 

"I'll  sleep  no  more,"  he  cried  ;   "and  now 

Three  hours  of  freedom  I  may  gain 
Before  my  master  comes,  for  then 

I  shall  be  but  a  slave  again. 
Three  blessed  hours  of  freedom  !  how 
Shall  I  employ  them  ?     Ah  !  e'en  now 
The  figure  on  that  canvas  traced 
Must  be, — yes,  it  must  be  effaced." 

He  seized  a  brush.     The  morning  light 
Gave  to  the  head  a  softened  glow ; 

Gazing  enraptured  on  the  sight, 
He  cried,  "  Shall  I  efface  it?     No  ! 

That  breathing  lip  !  that  beaming  eye  ! 

Efface  them?     I  would  rather  die  !" 

The  terror  of  the  humble  slave 

Gave  place  to  the  o'erpowering  flow 
Of  the  high  feelings  nature  gave, 

Which  only  gifted  spirits  know. 
He  touched  the  brow,  the  lip ;  it  seemed 

His  pencil  had  some  magic  power ; 
The  eye  with  deeper  feeling  beamed  ; 

Sebastian  had  forgot  the  hour  ! 
Forgot  his  master,  and  the  threat 

Of  punishment  still  hanging  o'er  him  ; 
For  with  each  touch  new  beauties  met 

And  mingled  in  the  face  before  him. 

At  length  'twas  finished.     Rapturously 
He  gazed  ;  could  aught  more  beauteous  be  ? 
A  while  absorbed,  entranced  he  stood, 
Then  started  ;  horror  chilled  his  blood  ! 
His  master  and  the  pupils  all 

Were  there,  e'en  at  his  side  ! 
The  terror-stricken  slave  was  mute ; 

Mercy  would  be  denied, 
E'en  could  he  ask  it. :  so  he  deemed, 
And  the  poor  boy  half  lifeless  seemed. 

B  k  13 


146  SUSAN    LUKENS. 


Speechless,  bewildered  for  a  space, 
They  gazed  upon  that  perfect  face, 

Each  with  an  artist's  joy; 
At  length  Murillo  silence  broke, 
And  with  affected  sternness  spoke  : 

"  Who  is  your  master,  boy?" 
"You,  sefior  !"  said  the  trembling  slave. 
"Nay,  who,  I  mean,  instruction  gave, 
Before  that  virgin's  head  you  drew  ?" 
Again  he  answered,  "  Only  you." 
"  I  gave  you  none  !"  Murillo  cried. 
"But  I  have  heard,"  the  boy  replied, 

"  What  you  to  others  said." 
"  And  more  than  heard,"  in  kinder  tone 
The  painter  said  ;   "'tis  plainly  shown 

That  you  have  profited." 

"  What  (to  his  pupils)  is  his  meed, — 

Reward  or  punishment?" 
"  Reward,  reward  !"  they  warmly  cried. 

(Sebastian's  ear  was  bent 
To  catch  the  sounds  he  scarce  believed, 
But  with  imploring  look  received.) 
"What  shall  it  be  ?"     They  spoke  of  gold, 

And  of  a  splendid  dress ; 
But  still  unmoved  Sebastian  stood, 

Silent  and  motionless. 

"Speak,"  said  Murillo,  kindly;  "choose 

Your  own  reward  ;  what  shall  it  be  ? 
Name  what  you  wish,  I'll  not  refuse; 

Then  speak  at  once,  and  fearlessly." 
"  Oh,  if  I  dared  !"    Sebastian  knelt, 

And  feelings  he  could  not  control 
(But  feared  to  utter  even  then) 

With  strong  emotion  shook  his  soul. 

"  Courage  !"  his  master  said,  and  each 
Essayed,  in  kind,  half- whispered  speech, 
To  soothe  his  overpowering  dread. 
He  scarcely  heard,  'til  some  one  said, 
"Sebastian,  ask,  you  have  your  choice; 
Ask  for  your  freedom."     At  the  word 


REV.  JOHN    M.  LYONS. 


The  suppliant  strove  to  raise  his  voice  ; 

At  first  but  stifled  sobs  were  heard, 
And  then  his  prayer,  breathed  fervently, 
"  Oh,  master,  make  my  FATHER  free  /" 

"  Him  and  thyself,  my  noble  boy  !" 

Warmly  the  painter  cried  ; 
Raising  Sebastian  to  his  feet, 

He  pressed  him  to  his  side  : 
"  Thy  talents  rare  and  filial  love 

E'en  more  have  fairly  won  ; 
Still  be  thou  mine  by  other  bonds, 

My  pupil  and  my  son  !" 

Murillo  knew,  e'en  when  the  words 

Of  generous  feeling  passed  his  lips, 
Sebastian's  talents  soon  must  lead 

To  fame  that  would  his  own  eclipse  ; 
And  constant  to  his  purpose  still, 

He  joyed  to  see  his  pupil  gain, 
Beneath  his  care,  such  matchless  skill 

As  made  his  name  the  pride  of  Spain. 


REV.   JOHN    M.  LYONS. 

REV.  JOHN  MORRIS  LYONS  was  born  near  Atglen,  January 
24,  1828.  His  childhood  was  spent  on  his  father's  farm  near 
Russellville,  and  at  a  school  taught  by  his  father,  under  whose 
tuition  he  became  master  of  the  ancient  languages.  He  graduated 
at  the  University  at  Lewisburg  in  1851,  and  two  years  later 
entered  upon  the  pastorate  of  the  Union  Church,  Philadelphia, 
and  in  the  following  spring  was  married  to  Eliza  Keller.  Subse 
quently  he  labored  at  North  Haven,  Conn.,  and  New  Rochelle, 
N.  Y.  His  health  having  failed,  he  returned  to  the  home  of  his 
parents,  and,  finding  the  Beulah  Baptist  Church  vacant,  became 
its  pastor,  and  ministered  to  its  people  for  the  next  eight  years. 
He  is  now  pastor  of  the  Baptist  Church  in  Medford,  N.  J.  Mr. 
Lyons  wrote  poetry  early  in  life  and  began  to  publish  it  when 
about  twenty  years  of  age.  His  poems  have  appeared  in  the 
Lewisville  Chronicle,  and  Christian  Chronicle  of  Philadelphia. 
He  has  also  contributed  to  the  Baptist  Family  Magazine,  Ex- 


148  REV.  JOHN    M.  LYONS. 


aminer,  Religious  Herald,  and  other  periodicals.  He  is  the 
author  of  several  popular  hymns,  and  three  commencement  poems, 
entitled,  "  Action  the  Element  of  Man,"  "  The  Triumvirate," 
and  "  The  Dervish,"  which  have  been  highly  commended  by  com 
petent  judges. 


THE   ZEPHYR. 

ASKED   the   bland   Zephyr   to    tell   me   his 

story ; 

He  answer'd,  "I've   strayed  from  my  ra 
diant  clime, 

Which  Sol  from  blue  ether  is  flooding  with  glory, 
The  laod  of  the  orange,  banana,  and  lime. 

"When  last  the  bright  star  of  the  evening  had  lighted 
Her  lamp,  so  resplendent  in  beauty  above, 

A  beacon  of  hope  to  the  hapless  benighted, 
Oh,  then  did  I  whisper  of  heavenly  love. 

"  I  pleas'd  in  the  mansion  a  little  to  linger, 
'Mid  feasting  and  music  and  pleasure  untold  ; 

I  fann'd  a  fair  cheek,  and,  with  spirit-like  finger, 
Toy'd  lightly  with  drap'ry  of  purple  and  gold. 

"The  cot,  too,  I  enter'd,  consoling  the  sleeper, 
On  pinions  swift-gliding,  like  those  of  the  dove  ; 

I  sooth'd  the  pale  brow  of  the  feverish  weeper, 
And  wafted  sweet  harp- notes  of  seraphs  above. 

"O'er  mirror-like  floods,  thro'   bowers  scented  with 
roses, 

I  haste  on  my  mission,  a  spirit  unseen, 
Where  labor  is  toiling,  or  leisure  reposes, 

Or  all  are  at  rest  'neath  low  hillocks  of  green." 

Sweet  Zephyr,  I  love  thee  !  thy  whispers  are  telling 
Of  him  who  to  chaos  brought  beauty  and  light  ; 

Who  enters  my  soul,  all  its  darkness  dispelling 
With  earnests  of  glory,  unceasingly  bright ! 


REV.  JOHN   M.  LYONS.  149 


OLD   OCEAN. 

LD  ocean's  voice  sublime  I  hear ; 
Upon  his  wide  expanse  I  gaze, 
Where  floating  palaces  career 

And  sunset  glories  grandly  blaze. 
Whence,  whence  this  hoary-crested  wave, 

Now  wildly  breaking  at  my  feet  ? 

What  shores  has  it  been  wont  to  lave, 

What  prows  adventurous  to  greet? 

When  glow'd  it  pendent  in  the  air, 

In  purple  and  in  gold  array'd, 
To  deck  the  gorgeous  portals,  where 

Bright  matin-splendors  changeful  play'd? 
This  shining  spray,  perchance  it  hung, 

Like  pearls  in  monarch's  priceless  crown, 
By  night,  His  sacred  locks  among, 

Who  drew  celestial  favors  down. 

Nay,  in  creation's  early  morn, 

When  angels  mov'd  the  balmy  air 
With  notes  of  joy  o'er  earth  new-born, 

Deep  cerule  billows,  ye  were  there. 
And  still  in  serried  ranks  ye  roar 

In  ceaseless  thunders,  guarding  well, 
In  caves  immense,  a  boundless  store, 

Whose  wealth  high  seraph-tongues  might  tell. 

Oh,  vast  profound,  strange  wat'ry  waste, 

The  more  I  gaze  and  think,  the  more 
I'm  lost,  cast  down,  amaz'd,  abas'd — 

A  mote,  a  speck  upon  the  shore  ! 
Oh,  thou  art  great !     What  must  he  be 

Who  holds  thy  waters  in  his  hand, 
And  bids  thee  stay,  majestic  sea, 

Upon  thy  barriers  of  sarid  ? 

Yes,  thou  art  great ;  but  yet,  proud  sea, 
Spurn  not  his  words  who  by  thy  side 

Looks  forth  admiringly  on  thee, 
Trembling  before  thy  restless  tide. 
'3* 


I5O  REV.  JOHN    M.   LYONS. 

Thy  rage  shall  cease,  and  thou  no  more 
Shalt  sport  with  man  in  pride  of  power 

But  I  shall  sing  when  hush'd  thy  roar, 
For  Life-Eternal  is  my  dower. 


DAY'S   DECLINE. 

EANING  o'er  the  western  gate, 

Gazing  pensive  down  the  dell, 
Lo,  I  stand  and  watch  and  wait. 

Bound  as  by  a  magic  spell. 
Longer  still  the  shadows  grow, 

Chill  the  fresher  night-winds  are ; 
Now  the  sun  has  ceas'd  to  glow, 

See  the  trembling  evening  star. 

Erst  by  yonder  eastern  gate, 

Gazed  I  on  the  blushing  morn, 
Rising  like  a  queen  in  state, 

With  all  beauties  to  adorn. 
Then,  enraptur'd  with  the  scene, 

What  thought  I  of  toil  or  care  ? 
Of  dark  hours  to  intervene, 

Or  of  burdens  I  should  bear  ? 

But  the  toilsome  day  is  past, 

I  the  restful  evening  greet ; 
Aching  limbs  may  rest  at  last, 

Wrapp'd  in  slumber  soft  and  sweet. 
Yet  I  know  that  I  shall  wake 

In  his  likeness  all  divine, 
And  of  deathless  joy  partake, 

For  a  living  Lord  is  mine. 

Youth,  'tis  morning  with  thee  now, 

And  thy  skies  are  bright  and  fair, 
While  upon  thy  beaming  brow 

Are  no  traces  drawn  by  care. 
Ere  thou  think  it,  fervid  noon 

And  the  shades  of  day's  decline 
Will  o'ertake  thee  all  too  soon  ; 

Say,  art  hopes  immortal  thine? 


LIZZIE   M.  MARSHALL. 


WAITING. 

And  it  came  to  pass,  that,  when  Jesus  was  returned,  the  people 
gladly  received  him  :  for  they  were  all  waiting  for  him. — LUKE 
viii.  40. 

* 

AITING  on  the  sandy  shore, 

Gazing  o'er  the  azure  deep 
For  the  bounding  boat  that  bore 

Christ  the  shepherd  to  his  sheep, — 
Waiting,  watching  hour  by  hour. 

Anxious  hearts  with  many  fears, 
Ye  shall  feel  his  gracious  power, 

He  can  dry  your  gushing  tears ; 
While  ye  look,  behold,  afar, 

O'er  the  restless  tide  appear, 
Like  the  rising  morning  star, 

Sails  that  waft  the  Saviour  near ; 
Nearer,  nearer,  wind  and  wave 

Must  his  high  behest  obey ; 
None  who  trust  in  him  to  save 

Shall  be  helpless  turned  away. 
Now  upon  his  royal  throne 

Saints  and  angels  round  him  sing 
Making  all  his  glories  known, 

Zion's  great  Anointed  King, — 
Yet  the  Saviour  is  his  name. 

Watching,  waiting  ones,  take  cheer  ; 
Now  and  evermore  the  same, 

He  to  help  you  will  appear. 
Quickly  coming,  Blessed  one ; 

Quickly  coming — faithful  word  ; 
Amen,  thou  exalted  Son  ; 

Quickly  come,  redeeming  Lord. 


LIZZIE    M.    MARSHALL. 

LIZZIE  M.' MARSHALL,  daughter  of  William  and  Ann  Stern 
McFarlan,  was  born  in  Kennel  Township,  July  21,  1826,  and  is 
related  through  her  father  to  the  Healds,  Puseys,  and  Swaynes  of 
her  native  county ;  and  on  the  Stern  side  to  the  Wests,  her  great- 
grandmother  being  a  niece  o>  the  celebrated  painter  of  that  name. 


152  LIZZIE  M.  MARSHALL. 


Her  progenitors  have  been  farmers,  and  her  life  has  been  spent 
with  the  tillers  of  the  soil.  A  child  of  nature,  she  was  always 
fond  of  out-door  life,  and  early  explored  the  fields  and  woods,  and 
became  familiar  with  the  flora  and  fauna  of  the  neighborhood. 

She  wrote  poetry  in  early  life,  but  few  of  her  productions  were 
published,  owing  to  her  reluctance  to  appear  in  print.  Occasion 
ally  she  wrote  for  the  Saturday  Evening  Post,  and  for  the  news 
papers  and  children's  magazines  of  her  native  county,  and  contrib 
uted  largely  to  the  various  literary  societies  of  which  she  was 
from  time  to  time  a  member. 

On  November  8,  1862,  she  married  Lewis,  son  of  Humphrey 
and  Mary  Underbill  Marshall,  of  Newlin  Township,  a  member 
of  the  Society  of  Friends,  to  which  denomination  she  also  belongs. 
Their  abode  is  on  the  banks  of  the  classic  Brandywine,  at  North- 
brook,  where,  with  the  aid  of  her  husband,  she  has  surrounded 
their  home  with  trees  and  flowers,  which  she  devotedly  loves  and 
cares  for.  Largely  absorbed  in  household  cares,  she  devotes  less 
time  than  formerly  to  literature,  but  her  interest  in  books,  and  es 
pecially  poets  and  poetry,  is  unabated,  while  efforts  to  remove  the 
evils  that  afflict  our  race  have  in  her  efficient  support. 

With  heart  to  feel  and  will  to  do, 
She  meets  new  duties  as  they  come, 

Nor  doubts  that  labor  prompt  and  true 

Will  bring  the  welcome  words,  "  Well  done !" 


MY   ANGEL. 

Y  angel,  stay  not  so  away ; 

Until  my  soul  is  strong 
I  cannot  spare  thy  blessed  face, 

Thy  spirit-presence,  long. 
I  cannot  work  as  I  would  work, 

So  utterly  alone, 
With  no  responsive  throb  of  heart, 

Or  arm  about  me  thrown. 

Sometimes  I  weakly  yearn  to  lay 

My  throbbing  head  to  rest 
Upon  its  refuge  in  old  days, — 

Thy  true  and  gentle  breast ; 
And  often  when  the  night  has  drawn 

Her  curtains  to  a  close, 
Have  found  in  happy  dreams  the  peace 

So  grateful  to  repose. 


LIZZIE   M.  MARSHALL.  1 53 

But  sometimes,  angel-friend,  when  thou 

Art  very  long  away, 
And  night-times  of  the  spirit  come 

"When  we  are  apt  to  stray, 
I  seek  in  vain  to  keep  the  faith, 

The  promise  fast  and  sure  ; 
That  when  I  feel  thy  presence  near, 

Is  steadfast  and  secure. 

Then  leave  me  not  till  I  am  strong, 

And  plumed  for  higher  flight, 
Until  I  stand  so  self-approved 

And  conscious  of  the  right, 
That  He,  the  Father  of  our  love, 

Will  fold  me  e'en  as  thou, 
And  take  all  sorrow  from  my  heart, 

The  earth-stains  from  my  brow. 


JUNE— A  FRAGMENT. 

T  is  June,  the  genial  season  when  dame 
Nature  wears  her  chaplet  full  of  roses, 
And  expanding  leaves  grow  perfect  in  their 

pride ; 

The  air  is  full  of  perfume,  and  the  clover 
Blossoms  make  a  carpet  richer  than  the 
Tyrian  looms  e'er  wove  for  palace  floor  ; 
The  bee,  proverbial  for  his  industry,  , 

Seeketh  the  poplar  chalice  to  procure 
Some  sweet  addition  for  his  precious  store. 
The  wind  comes  through  the  casement,  laden  now 
With  odor  from  the  flowers,  and  yonder  vine, 
Tying  its  tendrils  to  each  bending  twig, 
Hath  a  voice  rich  with  promises  of  fruit. 
The  wheat  in  its  green  sheath  bends  gracefully 
To  every  passing  breeze,  like  one  who  acts 
With  spontaneity  and  sweet  accord. 
At  early  morn  musicians  interfere 
With  the  grave  silence  of  the  peaceful  night, 
And  call  us  from  our  slumber  with  their  songs. 
No  more  the  violet,  with  azure  eyes, 


154  LIZZIE  M.  MARSHALL. 

Meets  ours  in  rambles  by  the  meadow  stream, 
For  all  spring's  gentle  visitors  have  gone, 
And  the  green  vestments  of  the  monarch  trees 
Keep  many  lowly  graves  hid  from  the  sun. 
They  sleep,  and  more  aspiring  flowers  have  come 
To  greet  us  with  their  queenlier  majesty. 
Ah  !  how  like  living  friends,  the  earliest 
That  come  with  quiet  smiles  of  greeting  oft 
Are  loved  the  most,  and  worthiest  to  be  loved. 
They  semble  life,  those  flowers  of  the  year : 
The  first  have  childhood,  innocence,  and  youth's 
Pure  gentle  beauty  and  rare  confidence, 
That  sullied  once  or  lost  comes  never  more. 
The  summer  blooms  are  likened  to  life's  prime  ; 
They  lift  their  heads  above  the  blinding  grass 
And  stand  where  even  the  unobservant  see, 
Strong,  and  in  regal  beauty  unsurpassed. 
The  last  flowers  of  the  season  are  like  life's 
Declining  days,  of  lofty  stature,  but 
With  more  humility  of  mien  and  speech ; 
They  seem  to  have  the  consciousness  that  death 
Opens  the  door  of  a  diviner  life, 
And  quenching  time  unlocks  eternity. 


THANKSGIVING. 

THANK  thee,  oh,  my  Father  ! 

That  my  cup  is  full  to-night ; 
That  the  stars  that  look  upon  me 

Are  so  tranquil,  clear,  and  bright ; 
That  my  spirit  looks  up  gladly 

Through  renewing  of  its  sight. 

I  thank  thee,  oh,  my  Father  ! 

For  the  strength  so  newly  born  ; 
For  the  grace  that  has  been  granted 

Since  the  dying  of  the  morn, 
When  I  sat  alone  despairing, 

Dreading,  doubting,  and  forlorn. 


ISAAC   MARTIN.  1 55 


I  thank  thee,  oh,  my  Father ! 

For  thy  gift  of  love  to  me ; 
For  the  bark  of  Hope  set  sailing 

On  a  blue  and  quiet  sea ; 
For  the  trust  that  now  reposes 

In  the  days  that  are  to  be. 


ISAAC    MARTIN. 

ISAAC  MARTIN,  son  of  George  and  Amy  (Buffington)  Martin, 
both  of  whom  descended  from  emigrants  from  England  in  the 
days  of  Penn,  was  born  in  East  Marlborough  Township,  October 
30,  1804,  and  has  resided  there  all  his  life.  His  earliest  recollec 
tion  of  books  is  associated  with  the  reading  of  Watts's  hymns  for 
children,  which  gave  him  great  pleasure,  and  no  doubt  induced 
him  to  try  to  express  his  thoughts  in  measured  lines.  His  first 
poem  was  suggested  by  seeing  a  butterfly  in  November.  It  was 
written  when  he  was  quite  young. 


THE   WAVY   PANE. 

S  through  my  window's  waving  pane 

I  look  towards  a  distant  point, 
Each  object  on  the  level  plain 
Is  seen  as  something  out  of  joint. 

What's  just,  I  see  disjointed  stand  ; 

What's  straight  presents  a  wavy  line  ; 
The  even  field  seems  rolling  land, 

Where  gorge,  and  cliff,  and  vale  combine. 

The  stately  pine  is  dwarf'd  to  shrub, 
The  willow's  pendent  branches  seem 

As  tangled  mass  of  useless  grub — 
Fit  only  for  the  axe,  I  ween. 

But  when  I  look  through  perfect  glass, 
This  strange  illusion  fades  from  view  ; 

I  see  the  true  before  me  pass, 
And  stand  again  as  once  I  knew. 


156  THE    MICHENERS. 

From  this  pray  learn  a  lesson  meet : 

When  e'er  thou  wouldst  a  comrade  test, 

Be  sure  to  have  a  perfect  sheet, 

Or  power,  within  thy  chambered  breast. 

Perhaps  his  seeming  lack  of  worth, 
His  cold  neglect  or  tart  reply, 

May  all  be  found  to  have  their  birth 
Within  thy  own  distorted  eye. 

Thy  greed  for  self,  thy  love  for  fame, 
Thy  pride  in  some  peculiar  scheme, 

May  be  the  root  of  what  you  blame — 
Unreal  as  an  idle  dream. 


THE   MICHENERS. 


EZRA   MICHENER,    M.D. 

DR.  EZRA  MICHENER  was  born  in  London  Grove  Township,  a 
short  distance  north  of  West  Grove,  November  24,  1794.  His 
parents,  Mordecai  and  Alice  (Dunn)  Michener,  were  members  of 
the  Society  of  Friends.  His  father  was  a  well-to-do  farmer.  His 
early  education  was  limited  to  such  as  he  could  obtain  at  the 
schools  of  the  neighborhood  and  by  a  diligent  use  of  the  books 
in  the  Farmers'  Library,  then  recently  established  in  that  neigh 
borhood.  In  1815  he  commenced  the  study  of  medicine  in  Phila 
delphia,  under  the  tuition  of  Dr.  D.  J.  Davis,  and  graduated  at 
the  University  of  Pennsylvania  in  1818.  The  following  year  he 
married  Sarah,  daughter  of  Samuel  and  Mary  Spencer,  and  com 
menced  the  practice  of  his  profession  within  a  mile  of  his  birth 
place.  Three  years  later  he  removed  to  New  Garden  Township, 
where  for  more  than  forty  years  he  successfully  practised  his  pro 
fession.  The  last  twenty-five  years  of  his  life  were  entirely  de 
voted  to  scientific  and  literary  work.  He  was  a  voluminous  and 
versatile  writer,  and  investigated  a  large  number  of  subjects, 
which  he  generally  tseated  in  a  plain  matter-of-fact  way,  but 
sometimes  in  a  critical  manner.  In  1860  he  published  a  "  Retro 
spect  of  Early  Quakerism,"  and  later,  "  A  Brief  Exposition  of 
the  Testimony  of  Peace ;  or,  The  Pearl  of  Great  Price,"  "  Man 
ual  of  Weeds;  or,  Weeds'  Exterminator,"  "  Tornadoes,"  and,  in 
connection  with  Dr.  Hartman,  "  Conchologia  Cestrica,"  being 
a  description  of  the  mollusca  of  Chester  County.  He  was  also 
the  author  of  other  books,  and  a  large  number  of  papers  on  scien- 


EZRA    MICHENER,  M.D. 


tific  and  other  subjects.  Dr.  Michener  was  a  man  of  temperate 
habits,  and  retained  his  mental  faculties  to  the  last.  He  died 
June  24,  1887,  at  the  age  of  ninety-two  years  and  seven  months. 
A  few  of  his  poems  which  have  been  preserved  manifest  no  small 
degree  of  poetical  ability  and  entitle  him  to  a  place  among  the 
poets  of  his  native  county. 


FRANCES   LAVINA   MICHENER. 

THIS  writer  and  Dr.  Ezra  Michener,  were  members  of  the  same 
family,  her  grandfather  and  he  being  first  cousins.  She  was  the 
daughter  of  Jefferson  and  Amanda  (Pyle)  Michener,  and  was 
born  near  Avondale,  April  I,  1866.  Very  early  in  life  she  evinced 
the  possession  of  rare  intellectual  gifts  and  a  chaste  and  vivid 
imagination,  and  at  the  age  of  ten  years  wrote  poetry  which  was 
remarkably  fine  for  one  of  her  age.  But  the  restless  struggles  of 
her  mind  seem  to  have  been  too  strong  for  the  frail  casket  which 
held  it,  and  in  her  seventeenth  year  she  was  called  to  exchange 
the  scenes  of  this  sublunary  sphere  for  the  beauties  and  joys  of 
that  upper  and  better  country  she  loved  so  well.  Her  poems  and 
prose  writings  were  collected  and  published  in  a  small  volume  by 
her  sister  in  Wilmington  in  1886. 


EZRA   MICHENER,   M.D. 
THE   CAR   OF  LIFE. 

HE  car  of  life,  a  wondrous  train, 
Unceasing  rolls  adown  the  plain, 

Nor  ever  to  return  ; 
The  young,  the  old,  the  meek,  the  proud, 
Alike  are  jumbled  in  the  crowd, 
One  common  fate  to  learn. 

The  train  is  free  alike  to  all, — 
Yea,  all  must  join  the  giddy  thrall, 

Without  a  stop  or  stay ; 
The  crowd  increasing  as  they  go, 
Causing  a  constant  overflow 

Anon  from  day  to  day. 

The  sick,  the  weak,  and  e'en  the  strong 
Are  jostled  off  to  ease  the  throng 
Of  its  accumulation  ; 

H 


158  EZRA    MICHENER,  M.D. 

It  is  not  chance ;  it  is  not  fate ; 
'Tis  Providence  that  gives  the  date, 
To  shorten  or  to  lengthen. 

And  so  ray  life  has  hither  run, 
From  day  to  day,  from  sun  to  sun, 

A  round  of  weary  strife, 
Still  hoping  in  the  end  to  gain 
A  recompense  for  all  my  pain, — 

An  endless  happy  life. 

Another  year  hath  run  its  course, 
Another  year  hath  spent  its  force 

On  this  time-honor'd  crone, 
Since  sad  and  weary  I  sat  down 
Upon  yon  cold,  unfeeling  stone, — 

My  mile-stone  ninety-one. 

Nor  might  I  rest  my  limbs  so  frail, 
The  car  ran  swiftly  down  the  vale, 

Unceasing  in  its  flight ; 
Sometimes  the  sun  shone  bright  and  clear, 
Sometimes  the  clouds  were  dark  and  drear, 

Obscuring  heaven's  pure  light. 

This  glorious  morn  a  cheering  ray 
Shone  bright  and  clear  at  break  of  day, 

And  kindly  brought  to  view, 
Along  the  dew-bespangled  vale, 
The  object  of  my  artless  tale, — 

My  mile-stone  ninety-two. 

There  may  I  rest  awhile  to  view 
The  past,  the  present,  and  renew 

My  covenant  of  peace ; 
And  thus  prepare  to  join  the  throng 
Of  angel  spirits  pure  and  strong 

Around  the  throne  of  grace. 

And  as  the  poet  erst  hath  said, 

When  life  its  fleeting  course  hath  sped, 

And  spent  its  youthful  fire, 
Let  age  take  up  the  joyous  lay — 
Sing  the  bless'd  name,  then  soar  away 

And  ask  an  angel's  lyre. 


FRANCES    L.  MICHENER.  159 

The  rose  of  feeble  growth  may  fade, 
And  spend  its  sweetness  in  the  shade 

Among  the  early  dead  ; 
The  violet,  too,  may  drop  its  bloom 
And  fragrance  on  an  early  tomb, 

Beneath  death's  cruel  tread. 

The  old  and  stricken  oak  at  last 
May  fitly  yield  before  the  blast, 

And  moulder  into  earth; 
But  why  should  manhood  thus  so  soon 
Lie  down  and  die  at  early  noon, 

When  just  of  greatest  worth  ? 

The  ways  of  Providence  to  man 
Are  not  for  human  thought  to  scan, 

In  this  imperfect  state. 
Passing  away  !  as  well  we  know, 
Is  stamped  on  all  things  here  below — 

The  little  and  the  great. 


FRANCES  L.   MICHENER. 

MAY. 

(From  poems  and  prose  writings  of  Frances  L.  Michener  by 
permission.) 

IRDS  are  singing,  branches  swinging, 
And  the  air  is  ripe  with  sweetness, 
For  'tis  the  sunny  month  of  May, — 
May  in  all  her  fresh  completeness. 
And  the  birds  sing  merrily, 
And  the  bells  ring  cheerily, 
And  the  winds  sigh  wearily ; 
For  'tis  the  sunny  month  of  May, 
And  nature  claims  a  holiday. 

Flowers  are  springing,  bluebells  ringing, 
And  the  trees  are  dense  with  leaves; 

And  the  sunshine  and  the  grasses 
All  day  long  their  gay  webs  weave. 


I6O  CAPTAIN  CHARLES    M'lLVAINE. 

And  the  blossoms  whisper  lightly 
Of  the  moon  that  beameth  nightly 
On  their  low-bowed  heads  so  brightly; 

For  in  the  merry  month  of  May 

The  flowers  sing  a  roundelay. 

May  is  dying,  winds  are  sighing, — 
For  the  fairy  month  they  grieve, 
And  the  flowers  she  leaves  behind  her 
When  of  earth  she  taketh  leave. 
And  the  bells  ring  merrily, 
And  the  leaves  wave  cheerily, 
And  the  winds  sigh  wearily  ; 
For  May  has  gone  with  all  her  sweetness, 
And  summer  cometh  in  completeness. 


CAPTAIN    CHARLES   MCILVAINE. 

CHARLES  MC!LVAINE,  son  of  Hon.  Abraham  R.  Mcllvaine,  and 
Anna  (Mulvaney)  Mcllvaine,  was  born  on  Springton  Farm,  part 
of  the  old  Penn  Manor  of  Springton,  on  the  3ist  of  May,  1840. 

The  Mcllvaine  family  are  of  Scotch-Irish  extraction.  In  1529 
they  were  the  Lairds  of  Gremit,  and  a  powerful  Sept  of  the  House 
of  Kennedy.  James  Mcllvaine,  from  whom  the  subject  of  this 
sketch  is  descended,  emigrated  from  County  Antrim,  Ireland,  and 
settled  near  Chester,  in  the  year  1740. 

Abraham  R.  Mcllvaine,  father  of  Charles,  was  a  patriotic  and 
public-spirited  citizen.  He  represented  Chester  County  in  the 
State  Legislature  in  1836;  was  a  member  of  the  Electoral  College 
of  Pennsylvania  in  1840,  casting  his  vote  for  General  Harrison 
for  President,  and  represented  the  Seventh  Congressional  District 
in  Congress  from  1842  to  1846,  inclusive.  During  his  whole  active 
life  he  was  a  pronounced  Unionist,  and  at  the  breaking  out  of  the 
late  war  encouraged  his  son  Charles  to  aid  in  the  suppression  of 
the  rebellion,  his  own  delicate  health  and  age  alone  preventing 
him  from  going  to  the  field  himself. 

Charles  Mcllvaine,  though  only  just  of  age,  raised  a  company 
of  volunteers,  of  which  he  was  elected  captain,  and  was  mustered 
into  the  service  of  the  United  States  in  October,  1861.  He 
united  his  company  with  the  Ninety-seventh  Regiment  of  Penn 
sylvania  Volunteers  as  Company  H. 

Captain  Mcllvaine  filled  many  important  staff  and  military 
positions,  and  served  his  country  with  distinction  and  bravery  until 
compelled  to  resign  by  ill  health  on  June  10,  1863. 

His  early  education  was  received  at  the  hands  of  private  teachers 
and  at  the  public  schools  of  Indian  Town  and  Brandywine 


CAPTAIN  CHARLES    M'lLVAlNE.  l6l 


Manor.  He  afterwards  spent  eighteen  months  at  the  Northwest 
Grammar  School  of  Philadelphia,  hut  was  compelled  to  leave  there 
at  the  age  of  thirteen  because  of  failing  health.  Being  fond  of 
reading  and  study,  he  has  been  a  hard  student  since  that  age,  and 
may  be  called  a  self-educated  man. 

With  the  exception  of  letters  written  upon  art  matters  while  in 
Europe  in  1873-74,  Captain  Mcllvaine  published  but  little  until 
1881,  when  he  became  a  contributor  to  the  Detroit  Free  Press,  in 
which  he  has  published  many  humorous  poems  and  short  prose 
sketches  in  the  dialect  of  the  West  Virginia  mountaineers,  under 
his  'nont  de  plume  of  "  Tobe  Hodge."  The  "  Tim  Price"  yarns 
and  "  Powerful  Temperance,"  as  humorous  sketches,  and  the 
stories  of  "  The  Twins  of  Weasel  Branch,"  "  The  Ghost  of  Aaron's 
Prong,"  and  "  Tina's  Holin'  "  met  with  great  popular  favor. 

Under  his  nom  de  plume  he  is  a  contributor  to  nearly  all  the 
leading  American  magazines,  and  is,  under  his  proper  name,  a 
well-known  writer  upon  scientific  subjects,  edible  and  non- edible 
fungi  being  his  specialty.  Puck,  Harper's  publications,  and 
others  published  much  of  his  humorous  work,  signed  and  un 
signed. 

His  story  entitled  "  A  Legend  of  Polecat  Hollow,"  which 
originally  appeared  in  7~he  Continent,  has  been  republished  in 
England  in  book-form,  where  it  has  had  a  large  sale. 

He  excels  as  a  writer  of  humorous  and  dialectic  poems ;  and  as 
a  writer  of  short  stories  is  given  rank  by  the  press  in  general  with 
the  best. 


GROOM   AN'    BRIDE. 

WO  uncarved  stones  in  an  unfenced  field, 

Scratched  dates  of  a  hundred  years  ago  ; 
Worth  climbing  a  sedge-grown  hill  to  see — 

Parting  the  briars  where  the  cattle  go — 
Tripping  on  vines  where  the  dewberries  grow. 

The  legend  is  told  in  the  simplest  way 
By  those  who  dimly  remember  the  tale ; 

But  young  folks,  just  before  "  marryin'  day," 
Clasp  their  hands  o'er  the  grave's  brown  shale, 
Trusting  the  custom  which  does  prevail. 

Sitting  one  night  by  a  dying  fire, 

In  a  cabin  where  poverty  always  had  been, 
With  the  snow  stealing  in  and  the  wind  braving 

through, —  « 

Chilling  past  hope  of  comfort  within, — 
I  asked  an  old  man  a  yarn  to  spin. 
/  14* 


1 62  CAPTAIN  CHARLES    M'lLVAINE. 


"  Hain't  you  never  heerd  tell  uv  them  two  thet's  dead  ? 

I  disremember  how  long  they're  gone, 
But  I've  heered  my  fayther  tell  uv  the  time; 

He  lived  when  the  buryin'  wuz  goin"  on. 

(•Sich  a  time  ez  they  hed  to  git  'em  ondone.) 

"  The  trail  useter  lay  up  thar  on  the  hill, 

Where  you've  seed  them  stones  standin'  side  by  side 

With  writin'  an'. riggers — my  fayther  was  larned  : 
He  said,  '  Thet's  the  time  that  them  two  died ;' 
An'  I  think  he  named  'em  Groom  an'  Bride. 

"  Hit  must  hev'  been,  likely,  sich  weather  as  this ; 
Fer  the  snow  wuz  deep,  an'  'twere  powerful  cold, — 

I  mind  he  telled  me  they  fruz  so  quick 

You  wouldn't  hev'  knowed  ef  you  hedn't  been  told  : 
Fer  she  looked  so  purty,  an'  he  'peared  so  bold. 

"  He'd  putted  his  coon-skin  cap  on  her  head — 
Puttin'  hern  on  his  own,  thet  wuzn't  so  thick — 

An'  his  b'ar-skin  coat  wuz  about  her  feet ; 
Bein'  sorter  tucked,  like  he'd  done  it  quick. 
(I  don't  reckon  he  knowed  that  he  iver  wuz  sick.) 

"  Fer  his  arms  wuz  around  her — warmin'  like — 

His  face  wuz  a-layin'  right  agin'  hern  ; 
An'  it  'peared — fayther  said — like  her  lips  wuz  up, 

An'  sorter  hed  a  kissin'  turn. 

(But  that  wuz  jist  guessin'.     Maybe  it  weren'.) 

"The  way  thet  he  knowed   thet  they'd  been  gittin' 

j'ined 

Wuz  'cause  uv  the  tricks  they  wuz  packin'  hum, — 
A  skillet,  an'  b'iler,  an'  powder  and  lead, 

An'  the  leaves  uv  The  Book — there  wuz  nothin'  on 

some — 
Them  wuz  the  signs,  an'  all  uv  'em  dumb. 

"  'Twere  amixtery  whar  they  wuz  from,  an1  wuz  goin'  ; 
His  rifle  wuz  new,  an'  her  moccasins  sound  ; 

No  one  ever  knowed.     They  buried  them  thar. 
I  forgitted  to  tell  you  how  'twuz  they  wuz  found  : 
The  snow  wuz  knee-deep  on  top  uv  the  ground. 


CAPTAIN  CHARLES    M'lLVAINE.  163 

"  A  dog  kep'  a  howlin'  the  howl  for  the  dead, 
Fayther  he  s'picioned  thet  somethin"  wuz  died; 

An'  he  said,  when  he  come  to  the  p'int  whar  he  wuz, 
An'  unkivered  an'  seed  how  the  two  uv  'em  1'yed, — 
He  didn't  mind  tellin', — he  sot  down  and  cried. 

"  Hit's  away  yander  back;  but  the  young  folk  'round 

yere 

Allus  goes  thar  afore  their  marryin'  day ; 
Fer  they  say  thet  the  spirits  uv  them  two  thet's  dead 
Is  hoverin'  'round  thar  in  some  sort  o'  way, 
That  makes  the  j'int  last.     Least  thet's  what  they 
say." 

SPRING   FEVER. 

HE  spring  is  coming  !     Let  her  come. 
The  bees  are  humming !     Let  them  hum. 
I  can't  stop  spring,  I  won't  stop  bees; 
I'd  like  to  have  a  hand  to  squeeze. 

The  birds  are  singing  !     Let  them  sing. 
The  violets  springing  !     Let  them  spring. 
I'm  not  a  bird,  I'm  not  a  flower; 
I  can't  improve  a  "  shining  hour." 

Buds  are  bursting  !     Let  them  burst. 
The  sun  is  thirsting  !     Let  it  thirst. 
Shoo  fly  !  you're  walking  on  my  nose. 
Please  go  away  ;  I  seek  repose. 

The  lambs  are  skipping  !     Let  them  skip. 
My  hammock's  ripping  !     Let  it  rip. 
I  wish  some  one  would  say  "  confound  !" 
My  hammock's  ripped  ;  I!m  on  the  ground. 


THE    HEATED   TERM. 

SAT  upon  an  ice  machine 

This  twentieth  day  of  August, 

Fearing  that  I  would  desiccate 
Like  heathen  god  in  sawdust. 


164  CAPTAIN  CHARLES    M'lLVAINE. 

I  took  my  pen  to  make  a  sketch 

Of  what  I  saw  about, 
And  lit  my  pipe  with  point  of  it 

While  underneath  a  spout. 

I  saw  a  star  just  tip  our  air, 
Then  leave  with  fiery  tail ; 

Upon  a  piece  of  toasted  bread 
Then  came  and  sat  a  quail. 

A  dog  picked  up  a  marrow-bone, 
But  dropped  it  with  a  howl ; 

My  fingers  boiled  like  parsnips 
As  I  lanced  his  blistered  jowl. 

A  cat  left  off  her  midnight  best, 
And  climbed  a  charred  post, 

Which  saved  a  little  red-hot  mouse 
Its  little  red-hot  ghost. 

A  kitten  stopped  and  spat  upon 
The  flame  that  'gan  to  rise 

From  off  its  warped  revolving  tail, 
As  sparks  flew  in  its  eyes. 

The  hens,  that  went  to  lay  their  eggs, 
Metamorphosed  their  cackle 

From  noisy  joy  and  pleasure  to 
A  cry  demoniacal. 

The  cook  stood  piling  ice  within 
The  fire-box  of  the  stove ; 

Her  buttons  flew  like  drops  of  lead 
With  every  heave  she  hove. 

The  milkmaid  lost  her  plumpness, 
As  she  melted  on  her  stool, 

And  said  she  would  not  milk  again 
Until  the  cows  got  cool. 

The  chambermaid  exemplified, 
In  one  capacious  blister, 

Exactly  how,  and  when,  and  where 
The  summer  boarder  kissed  her. 


JAMES  M'CLUNE,  LL.D.  165 

He  was  a  Legislative  man, 

So  did  not  mind  the  therm  ; 
But  said  he'd  "salt  the  treasury," 

For  an  "extra  (heated)  term." 

I  laid  my  scorched  paper  down  ; 

For  gone  the  power  of  writing 
When  fingers  dry  burst  into  flame, 

And  matters  grew  exciting. 


APPLE   BLOSSOMS. 

HEN  the  apple  was  in  blossom," 

Said  a  pretty  girl  to  me, 
"  I  love  the  fruit,  but,  could  I  wish, 

The  blossom  I  would  be." 
(Love  in  the  budding  is  glad.) 

Again  the  apple  was  in  blossom : 

That  same  capricious  Fay 
Wished  that  like  its  fleeting  sweetness 

She  might  swiftly  pass  away. 
(Love  in  the  growing  is  sad.) 

Yet  again  the  apple  blossomed  : 
She  kissed  the  clustered  cup, 

Sighing  then  to  be  an  apple, 
That  I  might  eat  her  up. 

(Love  in  the  ripening  is  mad.) 


JAMES  MCCLUNE.  LL.D. 

JAMES  McCLUNE  is  a  native  of  West  Nantmeal  Township,  and 
graduated  at  Princeton  College,  taking  the  first  honor,  in  a  large 
class,  in  1835.  After  having  been  principal  of  an  academy  at 
tewisburg,  also  of  one  at  Mifflinburg,  and  subsequently  of  the 
Howard  Academy  in  Chester  County,  he  was,  in  1855,  elected 
Professor  of  Theoretical  Mathematics  and  Astronomy  in  the  Phil 
adelphia  High-School,  and  continued  there  until  the  decline  of 
health  and  vigor,  caused  by  forty-four  years  spent  in  the  school 
room,  compelled  him  to  resign. 


1 66  JAMES  M'CLUNE,  LL.D. 


In  1866  he  served  as  one  of  the  examiners  of  the  annual  assay 
of  the  United  States  Mint,  and  in  1869  was  selected  by  the  govern 
ment  to  accompany  one  of  the  parties  sent  to  Iowa  to  observe  the 
total  solar  eclipse,  of  which  he  published  a  report.  He  also  pub 
lished  observations  of  the  great  comet  of  1858,  of  the  November 
meteors  of  1867,  and  of  the  remarkable  solar  spots  of  1870. 

Professor  McClune  has  been  for  more  than  forty  years  a  con 
tributor  on  literary  and  scientific  subjects  to  several  standard  works, 
and  of  poetry  to  the  periodical  press,  though  few  of  his  writings 
have  appeared  with  his  signature.  The  degree  of  LL.D.  was  con 
ferred  upon  him  by  his  Alma  Mater  many  years  ago. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  LAS  NAVAS. 

"  The  day  was  fatal  to  the  Almohades.  The  Christians,  en 
couraged  by  the  appearance  of  a  cross  in  the  northern  sky,  defeated 
them  with  dreadful  slaughter,  and  the  battle  of  Las  Navas  in 
volved  the  loss  of  the  Mohammedan  power  in  Spain." — Spanish 
Chronicle. 

ETIRING  day  had  clothed  the  West 

In  gold  and  russet  brown, 
While  night  prepared  the  world  for  rest 
And  ranged  her  star-gemmed  crown. 

The  moon,  now  tipped  with  silver  light, 

Now  sailed  through  fleecy  clouds ; 
Now  made  the  mists  on  mountain  height 

Seem  giant  ghosts  in  shrouds. 

When  sword-formed  rays  shot  from  the  North, 

And  soon  a  blood-red  light; 
Then  others,  quickly  streaming  forth, 

Engage  in  mimic  fight. 

While  far  above,  like  twilight  gray, 

A  crescent  spanned  the  skies : 
The  Christians  saw  with  wild  dismay 

The  Moorish  ensign  rise. 

• 

"The  morrow's  battle,"  loud  they  cried, 

"The  Infidels  will  gain, 
The  Crescent  still  the  Cross  deride 

Throughout  thy  bounds,  O  Spain  !" 


JAMES  M'CLUNE,  LL.D.  167 

When,  lo  !  those  warrior  rays  combine, 

And  form  a  pillar  bright ; 
The  Crescent  changes  to  a  line, 

A  Cross  salutes  their  sight. 

At  once,  with  reverential  fear 

The  astonished  Christians  cry, — 
"  O  Lord,  accept  our  thanks  sincere, 

Thou  art  a  helper  nigji !" 

Joyous  as  if  the  field  were  won, 

Each  breast  with  ardor  glows, 
And  with  the  morrow's  rising  sun 

They  rush  upon  their  foes. 

Soon  their  oppressors  die  or  flee, 

And,  boldly  pressing  on, 
They  on  that  day  forever  free 

Castile  and  Arragon. 


PARTING. 

IS  said,  and  none  its  truth  deny, 

"Who  judge  with  care  or  reason  right, 
That  blessings  brighten  as  they, fly, 
And  pleasure  as  it  takes  its  flight. 

Has  Friendship  wove  its  silken  chains, 
And  twined  its  fibres  round  the  heart, 

A  work  unknown  that  friendship  gains 
When  from  its  object  forced  to  part. 

Our  youthful  home  at  parting  seems 
More  pleasing  still  to  meet  our  view ; 

Its  joys,  its  hopes,  its  sinless  scenes, 
Rise  clothed  in  robes  of  brighter  hue. 

But  as  the  beam  of  closing  day 

Paints  evening's  clouds  and  then  expires, 
So  parting's  joys,  with  fitful  ray, 

Oft  light  to  blast  hope's  smouldering  fires. 


168  WILLIAM  M'CULLOUGH. 


Still  Memory  o'er  those  scenes  will  dwell, 
That  joy  and  hope  the  breast  expand, 

While  friends  arise  known  long  and  well, 
Summoned  by  Fancy's  potent  wand. 

And  when  life's  changeful  scenes  are  o'er, 
When  death  has  set  the  spirit  free, 

Then  friends  may  meet  to  part  no  more, 
Throughout  a  blest  eternity. 


WILLIAM  MCCULLOUGH. 

WILLIAM  MCCULLOUGH,  son  of  William  and  Mary  McCullough, 
was  born  near  Oxford,  April  13,  1815,  and  was  educated  at  Hope- 
well  Academy  near  that  place.  Mr.  McCullough  held  the  office 
of  justice  of  the  peace  five  years,  and  subsequently,  in  1845,  was 
elected  recorder  of  deeds  of  Chester  County,  and  held  that  office 
three  years.  In  1859  he  was  elected  treasurer  of  the  West  Ches 
ter  and  Philadelphia  Railroad  Company,  and  continued  to  act  in 
that  capacity  until  1881.  For  many  years  he  has  been  a  frequent 
contributor  of  dialectic  poems  to  the  West  Chester  journals,  and 
also  an  exemplary  ruling  elder  in  the  Presbyterian  Church. 


LIFE'S   MILESTONES. 

HE  yearly  milestones  on  life's  way 
Seem  closer  as  our  heads  grow  gray, 

And  watched  with  care ; 
And  as  we  near  the  silent  end, 
To  which  our  fated  footsteps  tend, 

We  ask,  Who's  there? 

But  looking  back  calls  up  the  past, 
And  memory  travels  far  and  fast 

To  youthful  days, 

When  entering  on  our  roving  'teens, 
The  sweet  attachments,  winning  scenes, 

Beset  our  ways. 


WILLIAM  M'CULLOUGH.  169 

A  year  then  seemed  a  century ; 
Now,  like  a  day  it  hurries  by, 

Laden  with  cares ; 

And  doubts  and  fears  our  hearts  oppress, 
And  pleasures  end  in  weariness 

And  worldly  tares. 

Ah,  me  !  how  glad  and  gay  we  were 
Before  this  world  became  a  care, 

And  charmed  our  eye  ! 
Then  life  seemed  like  an  endless  theme, 
But  now  it  passes  like  a  dream, 

Singing  good-by. 

Yes,  good-by,  only  to  earth's  cares, 
Its  toils,  its  trials,  and  its  snares, 

And  secret  woe ; 

To  join  the  ransomed  throng  above, 
Where  all  is  purity  and  love, 

Whiter  than  snow. 

The  sunlight  on  the  living  green, 
Prefigures  what  will  there  be  seen 

Free  from  all  ill. 
But  darkness  in  the  sky  destroys 
Alike  the  leaf  and  heavenly  joys, 

E'en  'gainst  our  will. 

To  those  yet  in  the  morn  of  life, 
Ere  earthly  cares  and  worldly  strife 

Beset  your  way, 

We  say,  remember  life's  a  trust, 
And  He  who  gave  it  will  be  just 

At  the  last  day. 


I/O  MARY   ANN    MOORE. 


MARY  ANN  MOORE. 


MARY  ANN  MOORE,  daughter  of  Isaac  and  Rachel  (Biles) 
Moore,  was  born  in  London  Grove  Township,  March  n,  1821. 
Her  great-grandparents,  Andrew  and  Rachel  Moore,  came  from 
Ireland  and  settled  in  Lancaster  County,  Pa.,  very  early  in  its  his 
tory.  They,  like  herself  and  most  of  their  other  descendants, 
were  members  of  the  Society  of  Friends.  When  she  was  thir 
teen  years  old  her  parents  removed  to  New  Castle  County,  Del., 
and  settled  near  Mechanicsville,  where  she  resided  for  the  next 
eighteen  years.  Subsequently  the  family  removed  to  Harford 
County,  Md.,  where  her  parents  died ;  she  has  since  resided  in 
Ohio,  Bureau  County,  111.  Her  education  was  obtained  at  the 
public  schools,  which  when  fourteen  years  of  age  she  was  com 
pelled  to  leave,  because  of  the  diseased  condition  of  her  eyes,  the 
sight  of  which  entirely  failed  a  few  years  afterwards.  Soon  after 
losing  her  sight  she  resorted  to  the  composition  of  poetry  in  order 
to  divert  her  mind  from  her  unfortunate  condition,  and  to  enable 
her  to  spend  her  time  more  pleasantly.  In  1873,  J-  B.  Lippin- 
cott  &  Co.  published  a  small  volume  of  her  prose  and  poetical 
writings  entitled  "Musings  of  a  Blind  and  Partially  Deaf  Girl," 
from  which  we  have  been  allowed  to  select  the  following  poem. 


WHO   IS  THY   FRIEND? 

HO  is  thy  friend  ?     Not  he  who  smiles 

When  pleasure's  cup  is  running  o'er; 
Not  he  who  firmly  grasps  thy  hand 
When  welcomed  to  thy  splendid  door. 

Who  is  thy  friend  ?     Not  he  who  speaks 
On  thy  behalf  when  fortune  reigns, 

Or  in  thy  presence  approbates 

That  which  in  absence  he  disdains. 

Who  is  thy  friend  ?     Dost  thou  not  feel 
It  is  not  he  who  seeks  to  place 

His  sport  and  ridicule  on  thee, 
By  flattering  praises  to  thy  face? 

Who  is  thy  friend  ?     Not  he,  the  proud, 
Who  covets  honor,  pomp,  or  fame ; 

He'll  greet  thee  in  an  humble  crowd, 
In  grander  places  shun  thy  name. 


ELIZABETH    W.  MOORE.  \"J I 

Who  is  thy  friend?     'Tis  he  who  stands 
Unchanged  midst  scenes  of  sun  or  shade, 

Who  lingers  near  with  ready  hands 
When  trials  are  upon  thee  laid. 

Who  is  thy  friend?     'Tis  he  who  strives 

In  kind  compassion  to  improve 
An  erring  habit  thou  hast  not 

Seen  necessary  to  remove. 

Who  is  thy  friend  ?     The  Lord  above, 

Who  sees  and  pities  all  thy  fears, 
Who  grants  thee  meekness,  patience,  love, — 

He  is  thy  friend  in  joys  and  tears. 


ELIZABETH   WALTON    MOORE. 

ELIZABETH  WALTON  MOORE,  daughter  of  Edwin  and  Mary 
(Dent)  Walton,  was  born  November  13,  1859,  in  the  old  Maple 
Hill  homestead  in  Highland  Township.  Her  parents  and  grand 
parents  were  members  of  the  Society  of  Friends.  She  received  her 
early  education  at  the  public  schools,  and  at  Ercildoun  seminary 
and  the  West  Chester  State  Normal  School,  and  graduated  at  the 
National  School  of  Elocution  and  Oratory  in  Philadelphia  in  the 
class  of  1 884.  She  began  teaching  school  at  West  Grove  in  1 879, 
and  continued  to  teach  in  the  public  schools  of  Chester  County 
for  about  seven  years.  On  the  25th  of  August,  1886,  she  and  G. 
Winfield  Moore  were  married,  by  Friends'  ceremony,  at  the  family 
homestead  where  she  was  born.  Mrs.  Moore  wrote  poetry  when 
quite  young.  Her  first  published  poem  appeared  in  the  Chester 
County  Times  in  1875,  since  which  many  of  her  poems  have  been 
published  in  that  paper.  She  has  also  written  for  The  Gems  of 
Poetry,  Moore  Literary  Gazette,  Scholar's  Portfolio,  and  Oxford 
Press. 


COUNT   ZINZENDORF. 

This  incident  occurred  in  1742. 


O  fair  Wyoming's  charming  vale, 

Where  peace  and  plenty  dwelt ; 
Where  Indian  slaughters  tell  a  tale 
Of  bloody  vengeance  felt ; 


ELIZABETH    W.  MOORE. 


Around  Wilkesbarre's  shaded  hills 

And  groves  enriched  by  song, 
Where  Pennsylvania's  happy  rills 

Flow  peacefully  along  ; 

From  'neath  Moravian  skies  had  come 

Her  persecuted  band  ; 
To  find  them  here  a.  quiet  home 

Within  a  foreign  land. 

One  day  in  summer,  mild  and  warm, 

There  came  from  Saxony 
Count  Zinzendorf,  who  braved  the  storm 

And  dangers  of  the  sea, 

That  he  to  Christian  faith  might  teach 

These  "  Forest  Sons"  to  turn  ; 
The  higher,  holier  light  to  reach, 

The  fires  of  truth  to  burn. 

Upon  the  river's  bank  enriched 

By  verdure  deep  and  fair, 
A  little  tent  he  rudely  pitched 

Within  the  forest  there. 

The  gazing  band  of  Shawanese 

Watched  with  an  evil  eye  : 
A  dread  suspicion  wakened  these 

That  danger  brooded  nigh. 

For  why  should  "white  man"  cross  the  wave, 

Brave  death  and  danger  too, 
That  he  the  Indian's  soul  might  save 

And  preach  conversion  true  ? 

"  Ah,  no  !  some  other  motive  sent 

This  '  white  man'  to  our  shore, 
And  we  will  have  his  scalp,  —  his  tent 

With  blood  shall  trickle  o'er." 

Thus  planned  this  band  of  murderous  men, 

And  in  the  cool  of  night 
They  silently  marched  onward  —  when 

They  saw  a  sudden  light. 


ELIZABETH    W.  MOORE. 


Count  Zinzendorf  sat  writing  there, 

Nor  from  his  papers  turned  ; 
To  warm  him  from  the  cool  night  air, 

A  low  fire  faintly  burned. 

A  curtain  hung  on  pins  was  all 

That  guarded  him  from  sight  ; 
And  soft  the  bloody  red  men  crawl, 

And  peer  in  thro"  the  night. 

When  lo  !  unguarded,  still  apart, 

As  in  his  tent  he  lies, 
A  sight  that  thrilled  the  Indian's  heart 

Now  met  their  wicked  eyes. 

Upon  a  bunch  of  weeds  —  his  bed  — 

He  rested  ;  watched  without 
By  cruel  murderers  stern  and  dread, 

With  many  a  lurking  doubt. 

And  as  they  raised  their  hands  in  ire 

To  deal  the  fatal  blow, 
A  rattlesnake,  roused  by  the  fire, 

Crawled  o'er  his  feet  below. 

The  red  men  saw  the  reptile's  form 

Pass  o'er  his  limbs,  with  dread, 
And  watched  with  awe  —  as  safe  from  harm 

It  left  him  on  his  bed. 

"  Surely,"  said  they,  in  silence  all, 

"Great  Manitou  has  kept 
The  white  man  from  the  serpent's  gall." 

Then  slowly  back  they  crept. 

They  hastened  to  the  town  to  tell 

Their  story,  wild  with  fear  : 
How  that  the  "  Count"  would  do  them  well; 

That  God  preserved  him  here. 

The  Count  gave  to  these  wild  red  men 

His  friendship  warm  and  true, 
And  planted  in  the  land  of  Penn 

The  Christian  faith  anew. 


174  SARA    L.   OBERHOLTZER. 

Tho'  nought  remains  of  fame  to  tell, 
Nor  history's  records  give, 

How  long  he  toiled,  how  bravely — well- 
Yet  Christian  deeds  shall  live. 


SARA   LOUISA   OBERHOLTZER. 

THIS  author  is  the  daughter  of  the  late  Paxon  and  Ann  T. 
Vickers,  and  was  born  in  the  family  mansion  on  the  Vickers  es 
tate,  in  Uwchlan  Township,  May  20, 1841.  The  Vickers  family  is 
of  English  extraction,  and  for  three  generations  have  been  mem 
bers  of  the  Society  of  Friends.  They  were  formerly  well  known 
as  the  manufacturers  of  earthenware  of  superior  quality. 

Mrs.  Oberholtzer  was  educated  at  Thomas's  Boarding-School,  in 
Lionville,  and  at  Millersville  State  Normal  School.  She  was  pre 
vented  from  studying  medicine  by  sickness. 

In  1862  she  married  John  Oberholtzer,  one  of  the  originators 
of  the  Pickering  Valley  Railroad,  and  for  many  years  a  success 
ful  grain  merchant.  Mrs.  Oberholtzer  has  written  since  her  ear 
liest  recollection,  and  for  many  years  has  been  a  frequent  con 
tributor  to  the  Philadelphia  Press,  Public  Ledger,  Godey^s  Lady's 
Book,  and  many  other  leading  periodicals.  Her  poetic  talent  has 
been  appreciated  and  admired  by  the  best  critics.  John  G. 
Whittier  says  of  her  poetry  "  that  much  of  it  seems  to  sing  itself." 
Her  Burial  Ode  for  Bayard  Taylor,  sung  at  his  Longwood  funeral 
service,  has  been  translated  into  several  languages,  and  a  number 
of  her  songs  have  been  set  to  music.  She  writes  poetry  with 
ease,  finding  rest  and  recreation  in  it,  and  "  sings  her  songs 
simply  because  God  allows  her  voice,  and  offers  whatever  is 
worthy  in  them  as  a  thank-offering  to  him."  She  is  State  Super 
intendent  of  Narcotics  under  the  auspices  of  the  Woman's  Chris 
tian  Temperance  Union.  Mrs.  Oberholtzer  is  the  author  of  three 
small  volumes  of  poetry, — "  Violet  Lee,"  "  Come  for  Arbutus," 
and  "  Daisies  of  Verse," — and  "  Hope's  Heart  Bells,"  a  Quaker 
story  of  three  hundred  pages,  which  has  had  a  large  sale. 


INTERVIEW   WITH   THE   SPRING   WIND. 

OMBING  out  the  gold-brown  tresses 

Of  the  mosses, 

I  met  the  Air  that  each  year  blesses 
Some  hope  renewed,  and  kindly  presses 
Down  the  crosses. 


SARA    L.   OBERHOLTZER. 


And  of  the  Air  I  questioned,  smiling 

At  our  meeting, 

"  What  are  you,  Gentle  Wind,  beguiling 
With  voice  and  bloom  so  reconciling 

And  entreating?" 

With  her  long  comb  the  Wind  proceeded 

To  card  the  mosses, 
Sort  out  the  tangles  that  impeded 
With  liberal  hand,  I  as  unheeded 

As  the  losses. 

"  You  waste  the  good  and  bad  together," 

I  persisted, 

"  Rake  bud  and  bramble  from  the  heather, 
The  brush  of  summer  best  knows  whether 

Strands  are  twisted." 

The  Wind  her  face  in  ire  and  wonder 

Now  uplifted  ; 

She  snapped  her  pretty  comb  asunder, 
And  screamed,  "  Alack  !  How  men  will  blunder  ! 

You're  not  gifted  !" 


A   BURIAL   ODE. 

FOR    BAYARD    TAYLOR. 

Sung  as  a  part  of  his  funeral  services  at  Longwood  Cemetery, 
March  15,  1879.     (Published  by  permission.) 

MPTY  the  casket,  the  caged  bird  out  flown ; 
Back  again,  back  again,  earth  take  thy  own  ! 
Thou  who  didst  give  it  thy  'fairest  of  clay, 
Clasp  thy  arms  tenderly,  fold  it  away. 

Fold  it  away ;  for  the  loved  one  has  fled. 

Fold  it  away;  for  our  hero  is  dead. 

Carried  most  lovingly  over  the  sea, 
Bring  we  our  offering,  Longwood,  to  thee ; 
Wanderings  over,  and  full  garlands  won, 
Reverently  bring  we  the  dust  of  thy  son. 


1/6  SARA    L.  OBERHOLTZER. 

Fold  it  away  ;  for  the  great  soul  has  fled. 
Fold  it  away  ;  for  our  hero  is  dead. 

Leave  as  our  treasures  his  life  and  his  songs ; 
Take  in  thy  keeping  what  to  thee  belongs ; 
Take  the  wayfarer's  inn,  God  has  taken  the  guest, 
Ours  are  the  memories,— thine  is  the  rest. 
Fold  it  away  ;  for  the  singer  hath  fled. 
Fold  it  away ;  for  our  hero  is  dead. 

Back  again,  back  again,  earth  unto  earth  ! 
Cradle  his  slumbers  who  cradled  his  birth  ; 
Take  the  form  tenderly  close  to  thy  breast, 
Gather  it  lovingly  home  to  its  rest. 
Fold  it  away  ;  for  the  tenant  has  fled. 
Fold  it  away  ;  for  our  hero  is  dead. 


THE  FORGOTTEN  BIRTHDAY. 

ND  we  have  forgotten  thy  birthday 

'Til  night  has  gathered  it  in, 
And  the  moon  her  pale  gold  crescent 
Hangs  where  the  sun  has  been. 

The  prism-like  guards  of  the  daylight, 
With  their  gold  arms  stacked  away, 

Have  folded  their  glittering  garments 
In  chests  of  silver  and  gray. 

It  is  only  now,  as  I  kiss  thee 
Good-night,  my  boy  eighteen, 

That  I  think  how  the  years  elude  me — 
Octobers  for  summers  green. 

Our  children  in  truth  are  the  dials 
That  mark  the  flight  of  hours ; 

And  those  who  have  never  owned  them 
Must  guess  the  time  by  flowers. 

It  is  we  who  count  by  the  sunshine, 
Though  the  sands  run  down  too  fast, 

And  know  by  the  growth  of  our  offspring 
When  our  own  youth  is  past. 


SAMUEL    M.  OSMOND,  D.D. 


It  is  we  who  see  the  Octobers 

As  garlands  of  scarlet  beads, 
And  the  threads  that  glisten  between  them 

Expanding  to  clover  meads. 

Ah,  well,  we  were  eighteen  one  year  ! 

And  it  seems  but  a  span  ago 
Since  I  welcomed  my  mother's  kisses 

Through  a  May-time  blossom  snow. 

No  day  can  be  lost  or  forgotten, 
If  blessed  on  the  parting  wing  ; 

And,  my  boy,  for  thy  coming  slumber 
A  wreath  of  prayers  I  bring. 

A  wreath  to  be  ever  around  thee, 

Refreshed  by  a  nightly  dew  ; 
To  tenderly  rest  on  thy  forehead, 

Fadeless  my  lifetime  through. 

Although  the  world  may  forget  thee, 
Or  grudge  thee  scant  laurels  won, 

'Tis  the  mother  at  night  who  remembers 
Forever  to  bless  her  son. 


SAMUEL   M.    OSMOND,   D.D. 

SAMUEL  MCCLURG  OSMOND,  son  of  William  and  Elizabeth 
Osmond,  was  born  near  Oxford,  August  18,  1825.  His  paternal 
ancestry  were  from  England,  and  his  mother's  were  of  Scotch 
origin.  He  received  his  education  at  the  public  schools,  New 
London  and  Hopewell  Academies,  Lafayette,  Delaware,  and 
Princeton  Colleges,  graduating  at  the  latter  in  1850.'  Subse 
quently  he  spent  three  years  in  Princeton  Theological  Seminary, 
and  while  there  accepted  a  call  as  associate  pastor,  with  the  Rev. 
Dr.  Jacob  Kirkpatrick,  of  the  United  First  and  Second  Presby 
terian  Churches  of  Amwell,  N.  J.,  where  he  spent  four  years. 
Subsequently  he  removed  to  Illinois  and  preached  for  some  years 
in  Perry  and  Pittsfield,  and  in  1862  became  pastor  of  the  First 
Presbyterian  Church  of  Iowa  City,  la.,  where  he  remained  until 
1879,  when  he  accepted  a  call  to  the  First  Presbyterian  Church 
of  Lawrence,  Kan.  After  spending  nine  years  in  Lawrence, 
he  accepted  a  call  to  the  Presbyterian  Church  of  Elkton,  Md., 
where  he  now  resides.  Dr.  Osmond  was  married  to  Miss  Louisa 
P.  Murdagh,  of  Oxford,  Chester  Co.,  June  I,  185*3.  His  first  wife 


SAMUEL    M.  OSMOND,  D.D. 


died  March  10,  1873.  He  subsequently  married  Mrs.  Harriet 
S.  Lane,  of  Iowa  City.  He  received  the  degree  of  D.D.  from 
the  University  of  Iowa  in  1873.  Dr.  Osmond  wrote  poetry  in 
boyhood,  and  in  early  life  contributed  many  poems  to  the  West 
Chester  journals. 


UNATTAINABLE. 

EARTS  with  the  love,  but  not  the  gift  of  song  ! 
Oh,  restless  ones,  forego  your  vain  desires 
To  emulate  the  bright  and  quenchless  fires_, 
Kindled  on  mountain  summits^by  those  strong 
And  bold  aspirants,  who  so  lightly  scale 
The  dizzy  heights^that  glow  above  the  throng 

Of  wingless  souls,  whose  home  is  in  the  vale. 
Ah  !  baffled,  bootless  strugglers  for  the  power 
To  wed  with  your  poor  verse  the  beauty  rare 
That  gold  can  never  buy,  nor  painful  care 
Mould  into  being, — know  'tis  but  the  dower 
Of  the  anointed  few :  to  them  is  given 

The  POET'S  mystic  art  they,  only,  share, 
To  whom  its  sacred  birthright  comes  from  heaven. 


SHELLEY. 

IGH-souled,  but  hapless,  Shelley,  how  my  heart 
Is  pained  at  thy  life's  tragedy  !  Thy  thought — 
Strong-winged  and  proudly  daring — roved  afar 
In  doubt's  dark  region  till  thy  brain  grew  wild 
With  strange  imaginings ;  and  startled  reason, 
Grasping  amid  the  gloom,  clutched  error  fast, 
And  dreamed  that  she  was  Heaven's  bright  daughter, 
Truth. 

Thou  wert  deceived,  poor  Shelley,  and  thy  lips 
Were  swift  to  utter  what  thy  heart  believed  ; 
And  thou  didst  link  thy  darkest  thoughts  to  song 
Which  genius  made  immortal,  and,  alas  ! 
Gifted  with  poisoned  sweetness  for  the  souls 
Of  its  rapt  listeners.     Under  its  spell, 
E'en  falsehood's  form  grows  brilliant  and  serene 
As  twilight's  gentle  stars ;  and  some  have  scanned 
The  beautiful  illusion,  looked  and  loved, 


GEORGE   W.  PEARCE. 


And,  in  their  impious  adoration,  flung 
Heaven's  garnered  hopes,  as  worthless  weeds,  away  ; 
And  —  like  the  lost  through  Circe's  charm  or  sirens' 
Luring  —  have  followed  thee  to  ruin,  dreaming 
They  tracked  an  angel's  footprints  to  the  skies. 

Oh,  I  could  weep  to  think  what  harmful  work 

Thou  may'st  have  wrought  —  yet  wrought  unwittingly 

In  thine  unselfish  zeal,  and  restless  striving 

To  disenthrall  a  world  of  struggling  thought 

That  pined  for  freedom,  and  still  writhed  in  chains 

Red  with  the  rust  of  ages  and  the  blood 

Of  martyr-heroes,  else  so  vainly  shed. 

Perchance,  had  patient  love  and  sympathy 
Tempered  the  passions  of  thy  youthful  breast  ; 
Nor  misconception,  coldness,  hate,  and  wrong 
Too  early  chilled  thy  spirit's  latent  good  ; 
And  oh,  perchance,  had  riper  years  been  thine, 
To  yield  life's  autumn  fruits  of  mellowed  wisdom,  — 
Thou  mightst,  indeed,  have  won  thy  noblest  aim, 
And  wrought  the  blessing  that  was  in  thy  heart  — 
And  in  thy  hope  —  for  sad  humanity. 
Hence  do  I  pardon  thee  :   I  mourn  thy  fate,  — 
Storm-driven  in  thy  death  as  in  thy  life  !  — 
And  twine  around  the  urn  that  holds  thine  ashes 
This  briefly  blooming  wreath,  bedewed  with  tears, 
To  tell  the  world  I  love  and  pity  Shelley. 


GEORGE   W.    PEARCE. 

GEORGE  W.  PEARCE  was  born  in  West  Whiteland  Township, 
January  15,  1814.  He  studied  law  in  West  Chester  with  Hon. 
John  Hickman,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1842,  and  was 
elected  Treasurer  of  Chester  County  on  the  Democratic  ticket  in 
1849.  He  became  editor  and  proprietor  of  the  American  Repub 
lican,  a  Democratic  journal  published  in  West  Chester,  in  1853. 
He  advocated  the  election  of  James  Buchanan  to  the  Presidency, 
but  became  an  ardent  Republican  and  Unionist  in  the  war  of  the 
Rebellion.  He  was  thoroughly  educated,  of  scholarly  tastes,  and 
a  poet  of  much  ability,  and  the  author  of  many  hymns  and  poems, 
which  were  published  in  the  leading  periodicals.  He  died  April 
13,  1864. 


ISO  GEORGE   W.  PEARCE. 


DAVID    C.    BRODERICK. 

David  C.  Broderick  was  killed  in  a  duel  by  Alfred  H.  Terry, 
who  was  shot  by  a  United  States  Marshal,  while  assaulting  Judge 
Stephen  J.  Field,  of  the  United  States  Supreme  Court,  in  1889. 

|HE  blood-hounds  are  sated,  the  jackals  have 

fled 

And  the  LION  is  sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  dead  ; 
His  blood  is  still  fresh  on  the  sward  where 

they  trod, 
And,  incense-like,  rises,  appealing  to  God. 

The  dews  of  the  morn  will  not  wash  it  away— 
'Twill  redden  and  glow  in  the  noon-tide  of  day, 
And  in  the  deep  gloom  of  the  storm-mantled  night 
It  will  rise  like  a  pillar  of  fire  on  the  sight. 

Ho,  brothers,  who  stand  by  his  patriot-grave, 
And  pour  out  your  griefs  for  the  valiant  and  brave, 
Let  his  death  be  the  watchword  to  startle  with  fear 
The  tyrants  who  stiffened  his  limbs  on  the  bier ! 

Arouse  from  your  lethargy,  children  of  toil, — 
Ye  sons  of  the  anvil,  the  loom,  and  the  soil, — 
Come  forth  as  the  winds  in  their  struggling  might, 
And  wrestle  till  death  with  the  foemen  of  Right ! 

'Twas  thus  with  your  leader,  the  gifted  and  true ; 
His  life  was  a  sacrifice  given  for  you; 
Every  pulse  of  his  heart,  every  nerve  of  his  frame, 
Was  to  dignify  Labor  and  give  it  to  Fame  ! 

He  was  peer  to  the  proudest  who  govern  the  land, 
But  he  stood  by  his  class,  as  a  hero  will  stand  ; 
And  when  the  hot  taunt,  like  an  arrow  of  fire, 
Was  hurled  at  the  artisan  craft  of  his  sire — 

How  he  sprang  to  the  breach  with  halberd  and  glaive, 
Defiantly  meeting  the  lord  of  the  slave  I 
He  spoke  for  the  workshop — the  sweat  on  the  brow 
Of  the  freemen,   whose  crest  is  the  sword  and   the 
plough. 


ANN    B.  PHILLIPS.  iSl 


There  are  fountains  of  feeling  we  may  not  control ; 
They  spring  from  the  innermost  depths  of  the  soul, 
And  flow,  like  a  river  escaped  from  its  bed, 
To  freshen  the  fame  of  the  glorious  dead. 

And  thus  as  we  stand  on  the  ramparts  of  Time, 
By  the  post  where  a  sentinel  fell  in  his  prime, 
We  open  the  caskets  our  bosoms  enfold, 
And  pour  out  a  treasure  more  precious  than  gold. 

Oh  !  men,  who  look  out  from  the  far  Golden  Gate, 
Where  the  holocaust  smokes  in  the  embers  of  hate, 
Have  you  drunk  of  the  flagons  that  nerved  him  to  stand 
For  Truth,  as  a  rock  on  your  ocean-beat  strand  ? 

Then  rear  to  the  martyr  a  shaft  that  shall  rise, 
As  a  beacon  of  Freedom,  far  up  to  the  skies, 
And  write  on  the  granite,  in  letters  of  flame, 
IMMORTAL  !  IMMORTAL  !  the  patriot's  name  ! 


ANN    B.    PHILLIPS. 

ANN  BAILY  PHILLIPS,  eldest  daughter  of  Richard  Baily  and 
Susan  (Buffington)  Baily,  was  born  in  West  Marlborough  Town 
ship,  on  Christmas  Day,  1820.  Her  childhood  was  spent  at  the 
family  homestead,  about  a  mile  northwest  of  the  village  of  Leonard. 
She  was  educated  at  the  schools  in  the  neighborhood,  and  at 
Price's  Boarding-School  near  West  Chester.  She  took  a  deep  in 
terest  in  literary  work,  and  was  one  of  the  most  active  members 
of  the  Lyceum  at  Bloomingdale.  She  married  Harvey  Phillips, 
February  14,  1850.  Mrs.  Phillips  was  the  author  of  a  large 
number  of  poems,  but  owing  to  her  modesty  few  of  them  have 
been  published.  The  "  Two  Visions"  was  published  under  the 
nom  de plume  of  "  Allan  McAuley."  After  the  death  of  her  hus 
band,  she  resided  in  Kennet  Square,  where  she  died,  August  30, 
1887.  She  left  a  family  of  two  sons  and  five  daughters. 


TWO   VISIONS. 

twilight,  in  the  gathering  dark, 
Two  visions  come  to  me,— 
I  see  a  gay  and  gallant  bark 
Stand  proudly  out  to  sea. 
16 


1 82  ANN    B.   PHILLIPS. 


The  starry  flag  streams  bravely  out, 

The  sun  shines  bright  above, 
While  from  her  deck  goes  up  a  shout 

Of  triumph,  joy,  and  love. 

On  men  and  women,  good  and  fair, 

Shines  down  the  golden  sun  ; 
But  of  the  crowd  that  gathers  there 

I  mark  but  only  one  ; 
I  seem  to  hear  him  softly  sing, 

While  all  around  him  stand, — 
"A  heart  unchanged  by  time  I'll  bring 

Back  to  my  native  land." 
The  vision  will  not  pause  or  stay, 

But  fades  into  the  night, 
The  good  ship  speeds  upon  her  way 

And  passes  from  my  sight. 
******* 

The  summer  flowers  bestrew  the  ground, 

The  South  winds  wander  free, 
Another  vessel,  homeward  bound, 

Comes  sailing  o'er  the  sea: 
The  starry  flag  hangs  from  her  mast, 

But  draped  with  signs  of  woe ; 
I  see  a  dark  procession  pass, 

With  footsteps  sad  and  slow. 
With  mournful  voices  low  they  sing, 

Bearing  a  burden  o'er  the  sand, — 
"  Our  Poet- Statesman  here  we  bring 

Back  to  his  native  land." 
While  men  and  women  sorrowing  wept, 

And  mournful  tones  breathed  soft, 
Onward  the  sad  procession  swept 

To  "Towered  Cedarcroft," 
Where  father,  mother,  kindred  all 

Receive  the  wand'rer  home, — 
He  sleeps,  his  country's  flag  his  pall, 

And  rests,  his  labor  done. 
While  lovely  June,  with  balmy  breath, 

Is  scat'ring  flowers  on  every  hand, 
His  true  warm  heart  comes,  cold  in  death, 

Back  to  his  native  land. 


ANN    B.   PHILLIPS.  183 


Sitting  alone  in  the  gloaming, 
These  visions  come  to  me, 

And  my  spirit  goes  roaming,  roaming 
With  two  ships  that  sailed  the  sea. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

Ann  Taylor  died  February,   1877,  *n  tne  ninety -second  year 
of  her  age. 

ONE  to  her  rest,  crowned  with  her  many  years 
Of  well-spent  life,  she  leaves  the  things  of 

time; 
But,  looking  backward  through  the  gathering 

tears, 

I  see  her  now  as  in  her  noonday  prime ; 
When  patiently  she  walked  her  round  of  duty, 

Her  husband's  love  enshrined  within  her  breast; 
While  children  gathered  round  her  in  their  beauty, 
And,  rising  up  in  honor,  called  her  blessed. 

Unvexed  by  wild  ambition's  stormy  powers, 

Life's  quiet  by-ways  peacefully  she  trod, 
Gathering  wise  precepts  from  the  birds  and  flowers, 

The  golden  sunshine  and  the  daisied  sod. 
Thrice  honored  she,  as  mother,  wife,  and  friend ; 

Her  children's  children  gathered  to  her  side, 
Bringing  their  children  o'er  her  grave,  to  bend 

With  filial  love  and  reverence  when  she  died. 
Find  we  a  better  fate,  where'er  we  roam, 

Or  any  truer  happiness  in  life, 
Than  thus  to  live,  the  guiding  star  of  home, 

An  honored  mother,  and  devoted  wife? 
Her  lamp  clear  burning,  at  the  set  of  sun, 

She  laid  her  down  as  on  a  mother's  breast, 
And  surely  heard  the  father  say,  "  Well  done," 

Thou  good  and  faithful,  enter  into  rest. 
Dear  to  the  heart  her  unassuming  worth, 

And  sweet  the  memory  of  her  modest  fame ; 
Not  with  the  great,  but  with  the  good  of  earth, 

The  pure  in  heart,  shall  be  inscribed  her  name. 


184  ISSACHAR    PRICE. 

Oh,  when  her  children  seek  the  silent  bowers 

Where  peacefully  the  honored  dead  repose, 
To  deck  her  place  of  rest  with  summer  flowers, 

The  modest  lily  and  the  fragrant  rose, 
Fain  would  I  join  me  with  that  pilgrim  band, 

There  where  the  grasses  now  above  her  wave, 
That  I  might  lay  with  loving,  reverent  hand, 

One  little  tuft  of  violets  on  her  grave.. 


ISSACHAR   PRICE. 


THE  subject  of  this  sketch  was  of  Welsh  descent,  and  was  born 
in  Gallagherville,  Cain  Township,  March  7,  1828,  and  died 
August  29,  1881.  He  was  educated  at  the  public  schools,  and  at 
a  select  school  taught  by  Jonathan  Cause,  near  Marshalton.  He 
taught  school  nine  years  in  Downingtown.  Subsequently  he  bought 
a  farm,  and  was  engaged  in  farming  when  the  war  of  the  Rebellion 
began.  He  enlisted  in' the  One  Hundred  and  Twenty-fourth 
Regiment  Pennsylvania  Volunteers  and  served  nine  months, 
taking  part  in  the  battles  of  Chancellorsville  and  Antietam.  He 
wrote  poetry  in  early  life,  and  in  1856  published  a  small  volume 
of  poems  entitled  "  School-Day  Rhymes."  For  many  years  he 
was  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  Chester  County  newspapers. 


THE   SNOW-BIRD. 

HY  comest  thou,  dear  minion,  when  the  winter 
Lays  desolate  the  fields  of  summer  flow'rs  ? 
Do  stormy  days  prove  more  delicious 
Than  summer's  sunny  hours? 

On  broken  seeds  I  hear  thee  in  the  meadows, 

And  in  the  bow'rs  deserted,  soft  and  low, 
Thy  music  trembles  every  stormy  morning 
Amid  the  falling  snow. 

When  pathless  drifts  are  piled  along  the  highway, 

When  every  hill  is  white,  and  vale  and  moor, 
Thou  comest  blithely,  making  little  footprints 
Around  the  cottage  door. 


ELI    K.  PRICE.  l85 


Though  Boreas  harshly  from  the  northward  whistles, 

And  huge,  black  clouds  ride  on  the  stormy  air, 
Thy  songs  remind  me  of  the  blue-bird's  singing, 
When  skies  are  mild  and  fair. 

The  ruder  winds  weigh  not  upon  thy  pinions ; 

But  thou,  triumphing  over  every  storm, 

Foldest  thy  wing,  after  thy  day's  rejoicing, 

To  sing  again  at  morn. 

The  darkest  day,  when  woods  are  bare  and  lifeless, 

And  every  herb  is  bound  with  icy  chains, 
When  winds  blgw  hollow  up  the  snowy  valleys, 
Thou  sing'st  thy  sweetest  strains. 

Why  wilt  thou  go  while  rosy  spring  is  coming? 

Stay,  stay,  and  sing  as  in  the  winter  day; 
When  flowers  are  blooming  and  the  glad  bees  hum 
ming, 
Fly  not  from  us  away  ! 


ELI    K.  PRICE. 


ELI  K.  PRICE,  son  of  Philip  and  Rachel  Price,  was  born  not 
far  from  the  Brandywine  battle-ground,  July  20,  1797.  Like  his 
ancestors  for  many  generations,  he  was  a  member  of  the  Society 
of  Friends.  His  early  education  was  obtained  at  Westtown 
School,  and  his  business  training  in  the  shipping-house  of  Thomas 
P.  Cope,  in  Philadelphia,  in  which  city  he  studied  law  in  the 
office  of  John  Sergeant,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar,  May  28, 
1822.  He  was  a  member  of  the  State  Revenue  Boards  of  1845 
and  1848;  in  the  State  Senate  for  three  terms,  ending  with  1856, 
and  was  for  many  years  a  Commissioner  of  Fairmount  Park.  He 
took  an  active  part  in  the  consolidation  of  the  city  of  Phila 
delphia,  and  was  instrumental  in  perfecting  the  law  in  regard  to 
real  estate  in  the  Commonwealth.  He  was  an  active  member  of 
the  American  Philosophical  Society,  and  the  author  of  a  number 
of  books  on  legal  and  scientific  subjects. 

He  was  possessed  of  much  poetic  ability,  though  he  wrote  but 
little  for  publication. 

1 6* 


1 86  ELI  K.  PRICE. 


THE  GOOD  MAN'S  DEATH  HYMN. 


SEE  a  light  thou  canst  not  see ; 

I  hear  a  voice  thou  canst  not  hear ; 
The  day  immortal  dawns  for  me : 

My  loved  and  lost  are  calling  near. 

I  hear  celestial  billows  roll 

Before  I've  reached  the  parting  strand  ; 
I  listen  with  transported  soul 

To  music  from  the  better  land. 

I  hear  the  sounds  of  harpers  there ; 

I  hear  the  hymns  the  angels  raise ; 
I  hear  a  voice,  "  Oh,  come  up,  where 

Are  sung  the  songs  of  endless  praise  ! 

"  Come  where  the  '  weary  be  at  rest,' 
From  pain  and  sorrow  here  set  free ; 

Come  join  the  host,  immortals  blest, 
Come  join  the  heavenly  minstrelsy." 

To  loved  of  earth  I  bid  farewell ; 

But,  where  I  go,  they  soon  will  come. 
I  listen  to  the  welcome  knell 

That  calls  me  to  my  happy  home. 

The  mansion  Christ  has  made  for  me 
He  made  for  loved  ones  gone  before  ; 

The  same  He  has  prepared  for  thee, 
Where  we  shall  meet  to  part  no  more. 

The  life  of  Life  we  there  shall  live, 

There  breathe  the  bliss  of  perfect  love  ; 

The  joys  of  angels  God  will  give, 
His  glory  share  in  realms  above. 


THE   PRESTONS.  l8/ 


THE   PRESTONS. 
ANN  PRESTON,  M.D. 

ANN  PRESTON,  daughter  of  Amos  and  Margaret  Preston,  was 
born  in  West  Grove,  December,  1813,  and  spent  the  first  thirty- 
six  years  of  her  life  in  the  old  family  mansion  in  which  her 
grandfather  had  lived  and  in  which  her  father  was  born.  Owing 
to  the  delicate  health  of  her  mother,  her  early  education  was 
rather  limited,  but  she  made  the  best  use  possible  of  the  facilities 
afforded  by  a  public  library  and  literary  association  to  improve 
her  mind,  and  late  in  life  commenced  the  study  of  the  Latin  lan 
guage,  which  she  pursued  with  interest  and  success.  Her  father 
was  a  minister  of  the  Society  of  Friends,  and  the  subject  of  this 
sketch,  when  about  twenty  years  old,  became  a  member  of  the 
Clarkson  Anti-Slavery  Society,  which  was  organized  in  the  neigh 
borhood  of  her  home,  and  for  many  years  continued  to  be  an  ac 
tive  abolitionist,  and  occasional  engineer  on  the  "  Underground 
Railroad."  Her  poem  entitled  "  The  Burning  of  Pennsylvania 
Hall"  bears  witness  of  her  zeal  in  behalf  of  the  cause  of  which 
she  was  one  of  the  most  distinguished  advocates.  In  1848  she 
published  a  small  volume  of  poems  for  children,  entitled  "  Cousin 
Ann's  Stories,"  and  subsequently  engaged  in  teaching  school  for 
several  years.  She  was  one  of  the  first  students  of  the  Woman's 
Medical  College  of  Philadelphia,  and  graduated  at  that  institution 
in  1852,  and  soon  afterwards  became  Professor  of  Physiology  and 
Hygiene  and  continued  to  be  connected  with  the  faculty  of  the 
college  until  the  time  of  her  death,  which  occurred  April  18, 
1872.  She  wrote  poetry  when  quite  young,  and,  though  not  a 
voluminous  writer,  was  the  author  of  many  fine  poems,  which  are 
greatly  admired  for  their  depth  of  thought  and  the  deep  vein  of 
spirituality  which  pervades  them. 


WILLIAM  B.  PRESTON,   M.D. 

WILLIAM  B.  PRESTON,  son  of  Levi  and  Sarah  (Bernard)  Preston, 
and  a  nephew  of  Dr.  Ann  Preston,  was  born  in  Kennet  Square, 
December  20,  1858,  and  died  in  Philadelphia,  April  17,  1888.  He 
was  graduated  from  the  Jefferson  Medical  College,  Philadelphia, 
in  1882,  but  did  not  practise.  He  was  the  author  of  a  number 
of  creditable  poems. 


1 88  ANN    PRESTON,  M.D. 

ANN    PRESTON,  M.D. 
THE   IDEAL  IS  THE  REAL. 

|E  make  this  life  a  mournful,  empty  dream, 

And  stones  for  bread  we  give, 
And  know  not  that  the  soul's  realities 

In  its  ideals  live. 
These  are  the  stars  that  shine  within  its  night, 

The  angel  ones  it  sees, 
And  evermore,  unconsciously,  it  learns 

Its  possible  from  these. 
There  are  no  limits  to  the  real, 
Save  those  that  bound  the  pure  ideal. 

The  thoughts  of  beauty  dawning  on  the  soul 

Are  glorious  heaven's  gleams ; 
And  God's  eternal  truth  lies  folded  deep 

In  all  man's  lofty  dreams. 
'Twas  first  in  thought's  clear  world  that  Kepler  saw 

What  ties  the  planets'  bound  ; 

And  through  long  years  he  searched  the  spheres,  and 
there 

The  answering  law  he  found. 
Men  said  he  sought  a  wild  ideal ; 
The  stars  made  answer,  "It  is  real." 

Paul,  Luther,  Howard,  all  the  crowned  ones 

That  star-like  gleam  through  time, 
Lived  boldly  out  before  the  clear-eyed  sun 

Their  inmost  thoughts  sublime. 
These  truths,  to  them  more  beautiful  than  day, 

They  spoke  to  quicken  men  ; 
And  deeds  at  which  the  blinded  gazers  sneered 

They  dared  to  practise  then, 
'Til  they  who  marked  their  young  ideal 
In  meekness  owned  it  was  the  real. 

Thine  early  dreams,  which  come  like  "  shapes  of  light," 

Come  bearing  prophecy ; 
And  nature's  tongues,  from  leaves  to  "  quiv'ring  stars," 

Teach  loving  faith  to  thee. 


ANN    PRESTON,.  M.D.  189 

Fear  not  to  build  thine  eyrie  on  the  heights 

Where  golden  splendors  lay, 
And  trust  thyself  unto  thine  inmost  soul 

In  simple  faith  alway ; 
And  God  will  make  divinely  real 
The  highest  forms  of  thine  ideal. 


PENNSYLVANIA   HALL. 

This  building  was  erected  by  the  early  abolitionists  for  the  pur 
pose  of  holding  anti-slavery  meetings.  It  stood  at  the  southwest 
corner  of  Sixth  and  Haines  Streets,  Philadelphia.  It  was  burned 
by  a  mob  May  If,  1838.) 

HAT  noble  hall  threw  up  its  light 

To  meet  the  answering  sky, 
While  startled  men,  with  shuddering  sight, 

Saw  threatening  ruin  nigh. 
Oh  !     Slavery's  form  that  hour  was  seen 

Polluting  all  our  air  ; 
Its  fearful  front  and  fiendish  mien 
And  twining  chains  were  bare, 
And  well  that  hall,  in  freedom's  name, 
Hath  spoken  out  with  words  of  flame  ! 

Is,  then,  the  hallowed  home  of  Penn 

A  place  no  longer  free  ? 
Have  Rush  and  Franklin  lived  in  vain, 

Oh,  recreant  land,  for  thee? 
Can  freedom's  cry,  flung  wildly  out 

From  sunny  vale  and  hill, 
Wake  in  thy  sons  no  answering  shout 

Of  proud  devotion  still? 
Shall  the  stern  voices  of  her  slain 
Thrill  from  thy  olden  graves  in  vain  ? 

No  !  from  thy  ruin,  glorious  hall ! 

Shall  rise  a  battle  cry ; 
Unsinged,  "upon  the  outer  wall," 

Our  lofty  banners  fly. 
Our  conquering  arms  are  truth  and  light, 

Encircling  love  our  shield, 
And  firmly  for  eternal  right 

We  will  maintain  the  field. 


I9O  WILLIAM    B.  PRESTON,  M.D. 

Woe  unto  us  if  now  we  falter, 

When  freedom  bleeds  on  her  own  altar. 

Though  o'er  us  now  the  raging  storm, 

And  rushing  waters  round, 
Though  fierce  the  lightning's  lurid  form, 

And  dread  the  thunder's  sound, 
Oh  !  brightly  yet  the  promise-sign 

Shall  span  the  arching  dome, 
And  singing  birds,  and  glad  sunshine, 

And  balmy  breezes  come — 
When  franchised  slaves  their  songs  shall  raise, 
And  yon  blue  welkin  ring  with  praise  ! 


WILLIAM    B.  PRESTON,  M.D. 

NOW   IS  THE   TIME   FOR  THE  *BABY  TO 
WAKE. 

(LOWLY  the  shadows  of  night  are  departing, 

Songs  in  the  tree-tops  the  little  birds  make  ; 
In  the  red  east  the  big  sun  is  upstarting, 
Now  is  the  time  for  the  baby  to  wake. 
Bonny  blue  eyes,  which  the  white  lids  uncover, 
Sleep's  rosy  dreamland  with  laughter  forsake ; 
Loud  sings  the  robin,  the  lark  is  a  rover, 
Now  is  the  time  for  the  baby  to  wake ; 
Birds  in  the  orchards,  and  bees  in  the  clover, 
Now  is  the  time  for  the  baby  to  wake. 

Flowers  in  the  woodlands,  their  eyelids  unfolding, 

Shake  from  their  petals  the  gems  of  the  dew  ; 
Cows  in  the  pastures  a  banquet  are  holding, 

Soft  wave  the  boughs  where  the  turtle-doves  coo. 
Lo,  the  white  mists,  round  the  mountain-tops  sweeping, 

Borne  on  the  morning  winds,  scatter  and  break  ! 
God  shows  His  handiwork, — who  would  be  sleeping? 

Now  is  the  time  for  the  baby  to  wake ; 
God  shows  His  handiwork, — who  would  be  sleeping? 

Now  is  the  time  for  the  baby  to  wake. 


ISAAC  R.  PENNYPACKER.  19 1 


ISAAC   R.   PENNYPACKER. 

THIS  author  was  born  in  Phoenixville,  December  n,  1852.  He 
is  a  son  of  the  late  Dr.  Isaac  A.  Pennypacker,  who  was  Professor 
of  Theory  and  Practice  in  the  old  Philadelphia  College  of  Medi 
cine,  and  Anna  M.  Whitaker,  whose  father,  Joseph  Whitaker,  was 
one  of  the  most  successful  iron-masters  in  Pennsylvania.  His  direct 
paternal  ancestor,  a  surveyor  for  the  Penns,  came  to  the  province 
prior  to  1699,  and  laid  out  most  of  the  roads  and  some  of  the 
townships  of  the  central  and  upper  part  of  Montgomery  County. 
Seven  of  Mr.  Pennypacker's  forefathers  sat  in  the  Pennsylvania 
Assembly ;  two  were  judges  of  courts ;  one  was  a  member  of 
Congress;  one  served  in  the  French  and  Indian  War;  and  one 
was  in  command  of  the  Pennsylvania  battalion  of  musketry  in 
the  Revolutionary  army.  Mr.  Pennypacker  was  educated  at  Mr. 
Bond's  school  at  Phoenixville ;  under  the  care  of  Dr.  Meigs,  at  the 
well-known  High-School  in  Pottstown,  and  studied  conveyancing 
with  Lewis  H.  Redner  in  Philadelphia,  and  law  with  his  brother, 
Judge  Samuel  W.  Pennypacker.  Having  a  penchant  for  news 
paper  work,  he  began  in  early  life  to  write  letters  which  appeared  in 
the  A  ew  York  Tribune,  Graphic,  and  Philadelphia  Press  ;  to  which 
latter  paper  he  also  contributed  editorials.  In  1880,  in  connection 
with  his  cousin,  Henry  C.  Conrad,  he  purchased  a  half-interest  in 
the  Wilmington  Morning  News,  which  under  the  efficient  manage 
ment  of  the  new  proprietors  underwent  rapid  improvement,  and 
soon  became  the  best  newspaper  on  the  Peninsula.  In  April,  1882, 
Mr.  Pennypacker  joined  the  editorial  staff  of  the  Philadelphia 
Press,  which  paper  he  left  to  go  upon  the  editorial  staff  of  the 
Philadelphia  Jnquirer,  in  1889.  He  is  a  brilliant  and  forcible  as 
well  as  a  polished  and  popular  .writer.  Mr.  Pennypacker's  wife 
is  a  great-grand-daughter  of  that  Colonel  Nathaniel  Ramsay  who 
led  the  van  of  Washington's  army  so  bravely  at  Monmouth,  N.  J., 
and  whose  brother,  Dr.  David  Ramsay,  was  the  author  of  the  first 
history  of  the  American  Revolution.  Mr.  Pennypacker's  poems 
long  since  attracted  the  attention  of  Longfellow  and  Whittier, 
and  were  highly  commended  by  them.  Mr.  Longfellow  inserted 
two  of  them  in  his  "  Poems  of  Places,"  and  Miss  Longfellow,  the 
poet's  daughter,  when  compiling  her  dainty  little  volume,  "  In  the 
Saddle,"  included  among  its  classics  Mr.  Pennypacker's  "  Tale 
of  Providence." 

On  behalf  of  the  Governor  of  Pennsylvania  and  the  State 
Board  of  Commissioners  on  Gettysburg  Monuments,  an  invitation 
was  extended  to  Mr.  Pennypacker  by  Colonel  John  P.  Nicholson, 
secretary  of  the  board,  to  compose  and  read  a  poem  as  a  part  of 
the  ceremonies  on  Pennsylvania  Day,  September  11-12,  1889,  at 
Gettysburg,  upon  the  occasion  of  the  dedication  of  the  monuments 
erected  by  the  cojnmonwealth  to  mark  the  positions  of  the  Penn 
sylvania  commands  engaged.  The  poem  "  Gettysburg,"  which 
Mr.  Pennypacker  read  upon  this  occasion,  which  drew  to  the 
battle-field  some  twenty  thousand  survivors  of  the  battle,  has  since 
been  pronounced  a  noble  lyric  by  Mr.  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman, 


ISAAC   R.  PENNYPACKER. 


whose  volumes  of  literary  studies,  "  The  Victorian  Poets"  and 
"  The  Poets  of  America,"  have  placed  him  at  the  head  of  the 
literary  critics  of  this  country. 


GETTYSBURG. 

This  poem  was  read  at  Gettysburg  on  Thursday  September 
12,  1889,  on  which  day  the  eighty  odd  monuments  of  Pennsyl 
vania  regiments  engaged  in  the  battle  were  turned  over  to  the 
care  of  the  State. 

WAS  on  the  time  when  Lee, 

Below  Potomac's  swollen  ford, 

Had  beaten  down  the  broken  sword 

Of  his  baffled  enemy. 
His  long  line  lengthened  faster 
Than  the  days  of  June, 
O'er  valleys  varied,  mountains  vaster, 
By  forced  marches  night  and  noon. 
Any  morn  might  bring  him  down 
Captor  of  the  proudest  town  ; 
Any  one  of  cities  three 
At  noon  or  night  might  prostrate  be. 

Then  to  Meade  was  the  sword  of  the  North 

Held  hiltward  for  proof  of  its  worth  ; 

O'er  the  vastness  of  masses  of  men 

All  the  glorious  banners  of  war, 

All  the  battle-flags  floated  again  ; 

All  the  bugles  blew  blithely  once  more, 

Sounding  the  stately  advance. 

Village  door-ways  framed  faces  of  awe 

At  the  trains  of  artillery  pressed 

On  earth's  reverberant  breast, 

And  the  sun  sought  the  zenith,  and  saw 

All  the  splendors  of  war  at  a  glance. 

How  soon  the  first  fierce  rain  of  death, 
In  big  drops  dancing  on  the  trees, 
Withers  the  foliage  !     At  a  breath, 
Hot  as  the  blasts  that  dried  old  seas, 
The  clover  falls  like  drops  of  blood 
From  mortal  hurts,  and  stains  the  sod. 


ISAAC  R.  PENNYPACKER.  1 93 

The  wheat  is  clipped,  but  the  ripe  grain 
Here  long  ungarnered  shall  remain  ; 
And  many  who  at  the  drum's  k>ng  roll 
Sprang  to  the  charge  and  swelled  the  cheer, 
And  set  their  flags  high  on  the  knoll, 
Ne'er  knew  how  went  the  fight  fought  here ; 
For  them  a  knell  tumultuous  shells 
Shook  from  the  consecrated  bells, 
As  here  they  formed  that  silent  rank 
Whose  glorious  star  at  twilight  sank. 

And  night,  which  lulls  all  discords — night, 
Which  stills  the  folds  and  vocal  wood, 
And,  with  the  touch  of  finger  light, 
Quiets  the  pink-lipped  brook's  wild  mood, 
Which  sends  the  wind  to  seek  the  latch, 
And  seals  young  eyes  while  mothers  watch — 
Night  stays  the  battle,  but  with  day 
Their  lives,  themselves,  foes  hurl  away. 
Where  thousands  fell,  but  did  not  yield, 
Shall  be  to-morrow's  battle-field. 
Ere  dying  died  or  dead  were  cold, 
New  hosts  pressed  on  the  lines  to  hold, 
And  held  them — hold  them  now  in  sleep, 
While  stars  and  sentinels  go  round, 
And  war-worn  chargers  shrink  like  sheep 
Beside  their  riders  on  the  ground. 
All  through  the  night — all  through  the  North 
Speed  doubtful  tidings  back  and  forth ; 
Through  North  and  South,  from  dusk  'til  day, 
A  sundered  people  diverse  pray. 

So  gradual  sink  the  deliberate  stars, 
The  sun  doth  rtfn  the  laggards  down, 
At  sleep's  still  meadows  bursts  the  bars, 
And  floods  with  light  the  steepled  town. 
Blow  !  bugles  of  the  cavalry,  blow  ! 
Forward  the  infantry,  row  on  row  ! 
While  every  battery  leaps  with  life, 
And  swells  with  tongueless  throats  the  strife ! 

Where  grappled  foes,  one  flushed  with  joy 
From  triumphs  fresh,  and  come  to  destroy, 
i       »  17 


IQ4  ISAAC  R.  PENNYPACKER. 

And  one  by  blows  but  tempered  fit 

To  keep  the  torch  of  freedom  lit, 

The  battle-dust  from  heroes'  feet, 

Brief  hiding  rally  and  last  retreat, 

By  the  free  sunlight  touched  became 

A  golden  pillar  of  lambent  flame. 

Glorified  was  this  field,  its  white 

Faces  of  victors  and  of  slain, 

And  these  and  Round-Top's  luminous  height 

That  glory  flashed  afar  again, 

Around  the  world,  for  all  to  see 

One  nation  and  one  wholly  free, 

And  branded  deep  with  flaming  sword 

Its  primal  compact's  binding  word. 

'Neath  Freedom's  dome  that  light  divine, 

Borne  here  from  dark  defiles  of  Time, 

From  here  upblazed  a  beacon  sign 

To  all  the  oppressed  of  every  clime, 

And  dulled  eyes  glistened  ;  hope  upsprung 

Wher'er  ills  old  when  man  was  young 

Against  awaking  thought  were  set, 

Where  power  its  tribute  wrongly  wrung, 

Or  moved  on  pathways  rank  even  yet 

With  martyr's  blood  ;   where'er  a  tongue 

Hath  words  to  show,  as  serf,  slave,  thrall, 

How  great  man's  power  !  how  deep  man's  fall ! 

Long  will  be  felt,  though  hurled  in  vain, 
The  shock  that  shook  the  Northern  gate ; 
Long  heard  the  shots  that  dashed  amain, 
But  flattened  on  the  rock  of  fate, — 
Where  Lee  still  strove,  but  failed  to  break 
The  barrier  down,  or  fissure  make, 
And  never  grasped  by  force  the  prize 
Deferred  by  years  of  compromise. 
Long  will  men  keep  the  memory  bright 
Of  deeds  done  here  ;  how  flashed  the  blade 
Of  Hancock  from  South  Mountain's  shade 
To  the  sheer  heights  of  unfading  light ! 
That  martial  morn  o'er  yonder  ridge 
Reynolds  last  rode  face  towards  the  foe, 
And  onward  rides  through  history  so ; 
For  Meade,  even  as  for  Joshua,  suns 
The  unmindful  gulf  of  Time  abridge, 


ISAAC  R.  PENNYPACKER.  1 95 

While  still  its  depths  fling  back  his  guns' 
Victorious  echoes.     The  same  wise  power 
Which  starts  the  currents  from  ocean's  heart, 
And  hurls  the  tides  at  their  due  hour, 
Or  holds  them  with  a  force  unspent, 
Made  him  like  master,  in  each  part, 
O'er  all  his  mighty  instrument. 
Chief  leaders  of  the  battle  great ! 
Three  sons  of  one  proud  mother  State  ! 
These  epoch  stones  she  sets  stand  fast, 
As  on  her  field  her  regiments  stood  ; 
Their  volleys  rang  the  first  and  last ; 
They  kept  with  Webb  the  target-wood, 
And  there  for  all  turned  on  its  track 
The  wild  gulf  stream  of  treason  back, 
Or  on  the  stubborn  hill-sides  trod 
Out  harvests  sown  not  on  the  clod ; 
Hearts  shall  beat  high  in  days  grown  tame 
At  thought  of  them  and  their  proud  fame, 
And  watching  Pickett's  gallant  band 
Melt  like  snow-flakes  in  the  deep, 
Pity  shall  grow  throughout  the  land, 
And  near  apace  with  joy  shall  keep. 

Baffled,  beaten,  back  to  the  ford, 
His  own  at  last  the  broken  sword, 
Rode  the  invader.     On  his  breast 
His  head  with  sorrow  low  was  pressed ; 
On  his  horse's  tangled  mane 
Loosely  hung  the  bridle  rein  ; 
At  Gettysburg  his  valiant  host 
The  last  hope  of  their  cause  had  lost ; 
In  vain  their  daring  and  endeavor, 
It  was  buried  there  forever. 
Right  well  he  knew  the  way  he  fled 
Straight  to  the  last  surrender  led. 

So  ended  Lee's  anabasis, 

And  all  he  hoped  had  come  to  this : 

As  well  for  master  as  the  driven 

That  not  to  him  was  victory  given; 

So  Right  emboldened  and  made  known 

Hurled  the  whole  troop  of  Error  down, 


196  AMELIA   J.  ROWLAND. 

And  here  held  fast  an  heritage  ; 
So  on  that  course  may  all  hold  fast 
'Til  no  man  takes  an  hundred's  wage, 
And  each  one  has  his  own  at  last, 
'Til  the  last  caravan  of  the  bound, 
Driven  towards  some  Bornuese  market-place, 
Happily  shall  feel  their  bonds  unwound, 
And  steps  of  woe  in  joy  retrace. 

In  the*cities  of  the  North 

The  brazen  cannon  belched  forth 

For  the  defeat  of  Lee. 

When  the  smoke  from  this  field 

Unfolded,  lo  !  fixed  on  the  shield, 

Each  wandering  star  was  revealed, 

And  the  steeple  bells  pealed 

Inland  to  the  farther  sea. 

In  the  villages  flags  waved 

For  Meade's  victory, — 

A  thousand,  thousand  flags  waved 

For  the  souls  to  be  free, 

For  the  Union  saved, 

For  the  Union  still  to  be. 


AMELIA   J.   ROWLAND. 

AMELIA  J.  ROWLAND,  daughter  of  William  and  Mary  Don 
nelly,  great-grand-daughter  of  Rev.  John  Donnelly,  a  Scotch  Irish 
divine  of  some  note,  and  widow  of  Robert  Rowland,  of  Chester 
County,  was  born  in  Elk  Township,  and  is  the  youngest  of  a 
large  family.  From  childhood  it  was  her  ambition  to  become  a 
teacher,  and  at  an  early  age  she  entered  upon  that  profession. 
After  teaching  for  some  years  in  Chester  County,  and  in  several 
of  the  counties  of  Maryland,  she  removed  to  Washington,  D.  C., 
where  she  taught  with  great  success,  nearly  two  thousand  pupils 
having  been  under  her  tuition,  many  of  whom  are  now  occupying 
important  positions  in  different  parts  of  the  country.  Some  years 
ago  she  relinquished  teaching,  having  been  appointed  to  a  clerk 
ship  in  the  United  States  Pension  Bureau,  where  she  is  now  em 
ployed.  Mrs.  Rowland  was  appointed  by  President  Hayes  a 
member  of  the  Board  of  Managers  of  the  Government  Hospital 
for  the  Insane  in  Washington,  D.  C.,  and  reappointed  by  President 
Arthur,  she  being  one  of  the  first  women  who  were  appointed  to 
that  important  position.  She  early  showed  ability  as  a  writer. 


AMELIA  J.  ROWLAND.  197 


Her  first  publications  appeared  in  the  Philadelphia  Dollar  News 
paper ;  and  under  the  nom  de  plume  of  Florence  Hastings,  she 
was  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  Harford  Times,  published  in 
Havre  de  Grace,  and  edited  by  her  brother,  John  K.  Donnelly. 
For  many  years  she  has  been  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  Oxford 
Press.  She  usually  spends  her  vacations  in  travelling,  and  her 
letters  descriptive  of  scenes  and  incidents  at  the  capital,  the 
White  Mountains,  and  various  historic  points  in  New  England,  the 
sunny  South,  and  the  distant  West,  are  very  popular. 


HERE   AND   THERE. 

HO  hath  no  sorrow,  who  no  grief  to  bear? 
What  cup  of  joy  is  not  unmixed  with  care? 
What  life  is  like  the  cloudless  summer  sky? 
What  heart  so  light  as  ne'er  to  heave  a  sigh? 

X 

Alas  !  no  dream  of  youth  or  hope  of  age 
But  hath  some  blot  to  mar  its  brightest  page ; 
Some  poison  deep  lurks  in  the  fairest  flower, 
Some  hidden  sorrow  clouds  the  brightest  hour. 

But,  rightly  heeded,  we  one  day  shall  know 
That  all  our  cares  and  sorrows  here  below 
Were  steps  to  lead  us  to  our  home  above, 
Completely  blest  in  Christ's  eternal  love. 

Then  let  us  bear  with  meekness  every  ill, 
Resigned,  submissive  to  the  Master's  will, 
Assured  that  when  our  conflicts  here  are  o'er, 
We  there  shall  dwell  in  bliss  forever  more. 


NOW. 

F  I  to-day  should  pass  away, 

Who'd  think  of  me  to-morrow? 
t  Who'd  drop  a  tear  o'er  my  lone  bier, 

Or  feel  a  twipge  of  sorrow  ? 

And  yet  when  gone,  some  may  look  on 
My  face  with  fond  affection  ; 

With  kindly  meed,  recall  some  deed 
Within  their  recollection, — 

17* 


198  AMELIA   J.  ROWLAND. 

Some  words  of  cheer,  when  days  were  drear, 

That  gave  a  new  endeavor ; 
Inspired  a  love  for  heaven  above, 

And  One  strong  to  deliver. 

Yet,  friends,  I  pray,  think  as  you  may 

Of  me  when  past  returning, 
'Tis  while  I  live  I'd  have  you  give 

The  love  for  which  I'm  yearning, 

When  this  frail  breath  is  chilled  in  death 

I'll  need  not  your  caresses  : 
Now  let  me  have  that  which  I  crave, — 

That  love  in  life  which  blesses. 


LIFE'S   SHADOWS. 

ES,  life  hath  its  shadows ; 

Its  seasons  of  gloom 
Oft  darken  our  pathway 

From  youth  to  the  tomb ; 

The  hopes  of  our  childhood 

Have  mingled  with  fears, 

Our  mirth  and  our  gladness 

Were  followed  by  tears. 

The  hopes  we  have  cherished 

So  fondly  have  fled ; 
But  yesterday  blooming, 

Now  withered  and  dead. 
Like  roses  of  summer, 

Once  fair  and  so  sweet, 
Which  the  cold  breath  of  autumn 

Hath  cast  at  our  feet. 

Hath  age,  then,  all  sunshine? 

No  shadows  to  cast 
Despair  o'er  the  future, 

Regret  o'er  the  past? 
No  ;  life  hath  its  shadows ; 

Its  seasons  of  gloom 
Oft  darken  our  pathway 

From  youth  to  the  tomb. 


THE   RAKESTRAW   FAMILY.  1 99 


THE   RAKESTRAW   FAMILY. 
ABRAHAM   RAKESTRAW. 

ABRAHAM  RAKESTRAW  was  born  near  Moorestown,  N.  J.,  March 
24,  1799.  In  1834  he  removed  to  near  Steelville,  West  Fallow- 
field  Township,  where  the  remainder  of  his  life  was  spent.  In 
1834  he  married  Lydia  Bushong,  daughter  of  Henry  Bushong, 
who  married  Sarah  Gilbert,  a  descendant  of  John  Gilbert,  the  an 
cestor  of  Howard  W.  Gilbert,  whose  poems  are  published  in  this 
book.  Mr.  Rakestraw  was.  an  exemplary  member  of  the  Society 
of  Friends,  and  a  great  admirer  of  the  beauties  of  nature,  from 
which  he  drew  the  inspiration  that  made  itself  manifest  in  his 
poems.  Though  engaged  in  farming  all  his  life,  he  was  for  many 
years  a  writer  of  poetry,  and  an  occasional  contributor  to  the 
Bethania  Palladium,  of  Lancaster  County,  and  the  Oxford  Press, 
He  died  December  9,  1874. 


MARY   RAKESTRAW   (JONES). 

MARY  R.  JONES,  daughter  of  Abraham  and  Lydia  Rakestraw, 
was  born  near  Steelville,  September  29,  1836.  She  married  Em- 
mor  S.  Jones,  March  15,  1855,  and  died  September  9,  1886.  She 
was  educated  in  the  district  schools,  and  wrote  poetry  when  about 
twenty  years  of  age,  and  for  many  years  was  a  contributor  to  the 
Oxford  Press  and  other  local  journals.  Her  poetry  was  the  re 
sult  of  an  irresistible  impulse  to  give  expression  to  her  feelings. 


ELIZA   RAKESTRAW  (WHITSON). 

THIS  writer  is  the  daughter  of  Abraham  and  Lydia  Rakestraw, 
and  was  born  near  Steelville,  December  6,  1840.  She  was  edu 
cated  at  the  public  schools,  and  at  Millersville  Normal  School, 
and  when  about  eighteen  years  of  age  commenced  teaching,  and 
taught  in  the  public  schools  of  Chester  and  Lancaster  County  for 
several  years.  In  1865  she  married  Theodore  Whitson.  Mrs. 
\Vhitson  wrote  poetry  at  a  very  early  age.  Her  first  poems 
appeared  in  the  Cedar  Branch,  the  organ  of  the  Cedar  Grove 
Lyceum ;  subsequently  she  contributed  much  to  the  Lancaster 
Inquirer  and  the  Page  Monthly. 


2OO  ABRAHAM    RAKESTRAW. 


ABRAHAM   RAKESTRAW. 


SPRING. 

HE  ice  and  the  snow  have  all  melted  away, 

Stern  winter  has  taken  his  flight ; 
The  fields  and  the  meadows  look  smiling  and 

gay> 

Presenting  a  beautiful  sight. 

The  songs  of  the  blackbird  and  robin  I  hear, 

In  the  morning  so  balmy  and  still ; 
And  the  swallow  has  come  from  a  country  afar, 

And  dips  in  the  murmuring  rill. 

The  beautiful  thrush,  how  he  warbles  his  lays ! 

His  notes  with  much  pleasure  I  hear ; 
Kind  nature  has  taught  him  his  Maker  to  praise, 

And  rejoice  in  the  spring  of  the  year. 

The  orchards  so  lately  quite  naked  and  bare, 

Now  clad  in  fair  garments  of  white, 
Diffuse  their  sweet  odors,  perfuming  the  air, 

And  add  to  the  scene  of  delight. 

The  innocent  lambs,  in  their  frolicsome  glee, 
Skip  light  o'er  the  meadows  so  green ; 

The  sight  is  so  lovely,  so  charming  to  me, 
I  would  never  get  tired  of  the  scene. 

Then  while  all  around  is  so  active  and  gay, 

Shall  gloominess  dwell  on  my  brow? 
Oh,  no ;  I  will  banish  all  sorrow  away, 

And  sing  as  I  follow  my  plough. 

My  heart  shall  expand  with  the  feelings  of  love, 
For  blessings  which  kindly  are  given ; 

My  affections  I'll  place  upon  objects  above, 
In  the  bright  blissful  mansions  of  heaven. 


MARY   RAKESTRAW   (jONEs).  2OI 

MARY   RAKESTRAW    (JONES). 

THOUGHTS 

SUGGESTED    BY   SEEING   A  WOMAN   ENGAGED   IN   PRIVATE 
DEVOTION. 

I  HEN   in    the   crowded   church   the  countless 

numbers 
Low  bend   the   knee,  or  rise  in   form  of 

prayer ; 

When  full-toned  voices  with  the  pealing  organ 
Mingle  together  on  the  Sabbath  air ; 

Or,  when  around  the  family  altar  kneeling, 

They  bow  the  knee  or  raise  the  voice  in  prayer, 

Something  akin  to  reverential  feeling 
Forbids  intrusion  as  they  worship  there. 

But  when  within  her  closet's  still  seclusion 
A  woman  folds  her  hands  in  secret  prayer, 

The  question  to  our  minds  comes  quickly  stealing, 
Why  in  her  solitude  she  kneeleth  there. 

Has  chill  bereavement  left  the  bosom  bleeding, 
And  grief  ris'n  high  with  its  o'erpowering  wave? 

Asks  she  for  strength  to  bear  each  earthly  trial, 
To  bless  alike  the  hand  that  took  and  gave  ? 

Or  has  she  come  with  joy  and  thankful  feeling, 
To  praise  Him  for  his  mercies  day  by  day, 

Who  watches  even  every  falling  sparrow, 

And  leads  her  still  in  wisdom's  peaceful  way? 

Earth's  fairest  scenes  of  grandeur  and  of  glory, 
And  all  the  wonders  art  and  wealth  display, 

Will  serve  to  dazzle  history's  brilliant  story, 
When  all  the  builders  crumble  with  decay. 

But  this  lone  kneeler,  in  her  heart's  devotion, 
From  worldly  cares  has  turned  her  feet  away ; 

'Tis  not  for  fame,  enrolled  on  history's  pages, 
That  she  has  come  in  solitude  to  pray. 


2O2  ELIZA    RAKESTRAW    (WHITSON). 


Clergy  or  priest,  on  yielding  cushion  kneeling, 
Where  columns  high  with  lofty  spires  combine, 

Seem  not  so  fitting  in  their  gaudy  worship 
As  this  lone  kneeler  at  her  humble  shrine. 

The  rich  attire  that  robes  the  sainted  millions, 
And  cumbrous  wealth  of  envied  millionaire, 

Can  bring  no  comfort  to  the  wounded  spirit, 
Like  that  which  follows  humble,  earnest  prayer. 

Then  when  the  morn's  first  gleam  of  rosy  beaming 
Greets  every  dew-drop  on  the  flowery  lea ; 

When  noonday  beams  or  evening's  gath'ring  shadows 
Have  made  the  brightness  of  the  day  to  flee, 

Remember  then  the  gracious  hand  of  heaven ; 

With  prayer  and  praise  begin  and  end  each  day, 
And  He  whose  care  protected!  e'en  the  ravens 

Will  hearken  when  his  earnest  followers  pray. 


ELIZA  RAKESTRAW   (WHITSON). 

SUNNY   DAYS   IN  WINTER. 

EAUTIFUL  days  in  winter  ! 

How  it  gladdens  the  heart  and  eyes 
To  see  the  grim  old  storm-king 

Throw  off  his  icy  guise  ! 
For,  though  a  monarch  cold  and  stern, 

And  in  frosted  beaver  dressed, 
We  can  hear  the  beat  of  a  generous  heart 
When  he  doffs  his  icy  vest. 

The  little  brook  in  the  meadow, 

That  yesterday  was  still, 
Is  singing  a  snatch  of  a  childish  song 

As  it  turns  the  school-boy's  mill : 
A  little  song  it  learned  last  June, 

One  sultry  summer  day, 
When  a  gentle  child  from  the  village  school 

Had  sought  its  banks  to  play. 


ELIZA   RAKESTRAW   (WHITSON).  20$ 

She  sat  in  the  shade  of  the  alder  tree, 

That  over  the  brooklet  hung ; 
She  bathed  her  feet  in  its  waters  cool, 

And  dreamily  smiled  and  sung. 
She  sung  of  a  country  far  away 

That's  free  from  care  and  pain, — 
Alas  for  the  brook  !     It  may  never  learn 

A  song  from  the  maid  again. 

For  now  she  walks  on  the  shining  shore 

Of  that  country  of  which  she  sung, 
Where  wisdom  comes  to  the  smallest  child, 

And  the  oldest  heart  grows  young. 
But  merrily  flows  the  brook  to-day, 

And  brightly  the  sunbeams  fall, 
Till  we  almost  think  the  summer  has  come, 

And  we  hear  the  sweet  birds  call. 


QUAKER   MEETING. 

OW  brightly  shines  the  sun  to-day ; 

A  soft  air  stirs  the  trees ; 
The  white  fleeced  clouds  sail  through  the  sky, 

As  vessels  sail  the  seas. 

A  holy  Sabbath  stillness  reigns ; 

The  working  world  is  still ; 
Hushed  is  the  plough-boy's  whistle 

And  whirr  of  busy  mill. 

And  in  this  quaint  old  meeting-house, 

Endeared  by  memories  old, 
My  heart  recalls,  with  sigh  or  smile, 

The  changes  time  has  told. 

Oh,  brightly  shone  the  sun  as  now, 

And  balmy  was  the  air, 
And  gayly  beat  our  youthful  hearts, 

Untouched  by  toil  or  care, 


2O4  ELIZA   RAKESTRAW   (WHITSON). 


When,  closely  packed  by  mother's  hand, 

'Neath  shady  oak  and  elm, 
Our  family  coach  rolled  slowly  out, 

With  father  at  the  helm. 

Though  sober  horse  and  driver  were, 

And  placid  mother's  brow, 
The  echo  of  our  laughing  tones 

Steals  o'er  my  senses  now. 

From  bonnets  void  of  flower  or  fern 

Came  many  a  burst  of  song, 
And  many  a  softly  whispered  prayer 

That  "meeting  won't  be  long." 

Green  is  the  grass  on  father's  grave ; 

His  heart  was  green  always; 
And  though  his  lips  ne'er  turned  a  hymn, 

His  life  was  full  of  praise. 

Beyond  the  window  where  I  sit 

The  little  graveyard  lies, 
And  scarcely  higher  than  the  grass 

The  modest  tombstones  rise. 

No  "city  of  the  dead"  is  it, — 

A  quiet  country  town, 
A  hamlet  where  the  weak  may  rest, 

The  weary  ones  lie  down. 

High  in  the  maples  overhead 

The  robin  trills  her  song, 
Unmindful  of  the  ancient  creed 

Pronouncing  music  wrong. 

And  by  my  side  a  young  girl  sits; 

Her  eyes  of  beauty  speak, 
A  summer  rose  is  in  her  hair, 

A  fairer  on  her  cheek. 

The  old  time  creed  will  pass  away, 

The  voice  of  song  be  heard, 
And  broad-brimmed  hats  a  lesson  learn 

From  flower  and  from  bird. 


THOMAS   BUCHANAN    READ.  20$ 

And  may  we  strive  in  earnest  faith 

A  broader  view  to  gain, 
And,  casting  off  those  fetters  which 

Our  onward  majxh  detain, 

Attain  at  last  a  noble  height 

From  early  errors  free, 
Still  showing  in  our  dress  and  life 

A  sweet  simplicity. 


THOMAS   BUCHANAN    READ. 


THIS  distinguished  poet  and  painter  was  born  in  the  great  val 
ley,  within  the  shadow  of  the  blue  hills  of  Uwchlan,  on  the  1 2th 
of  March,  1822.  His  childhood  and  youth  were  not  remarkable 
for  anything  to  distinguish  them  from  those  of  the  other  youths 
with  whom  he  associated, .and  old  residents  of  the  neighborhood 
tell  how  he  used  to  help  their  fathers  in  harvest,  and  of  the  jolly 
times  they  had  with  the  future  artist  and  poet.  The  beautiful 
scenery  of  the  great  valley  and  the  hills  that  skirt  its  borders 
made  a  lasting  impression  upon  his  youthful  mind,  and  no  doubt 
helped  to  develop  those  traits  of  character  which  in  after-life 
placed  his  name  among  those  of  the  most  illustrious  poets  and 
painters  which  this  country  has  produced.  In  early  life  he  was 
apprenticed  to  the  tailoring  business ;  but  he  seems  no.t  to  have 
liked  that  business,  and  at  the  age  of  fifteen  started  out  to  seek 
his  fortune  in  the  wide,  wide  world.  In  1839  he  opened  a  studio 
in  Cincinnati,  and  two  years  later  removed  to  Boston,  where  the 
first  of  his  published  verses  appeared  in  the  Courier  of  that  city. 
In  1846  he  removed  to  Philadelphia,  and  the  next  year  published 
his  first  volume  of  poems  in  Boston,  and  in  the  following  year 
another  volume  in  Philadelphia.  In  1850  he  visited  England, 
and  subsequently  spent  about  two  years  in  Italy,  engaged  in  writing 
and  painting.  Like  many  other  men  of  genius,  he  had  a  restless 
disposition,  which  impelled  him  to  frequently  change  his  residence ; 
and  the  latter  part  of  his  life  was  spent  at  Bordentown,  N.  J.,  in 
Italy,  in  Philadelphia,  and  during  the  war  of  the  Rebellion,  in 
which  he  participated  as  an  aide  to  General  Lew  Wallace,  in  Cin 
cinnati.  He  died  of  pulmonary  disease,  in  New  York  City,  May 
II,  1872.  In  1856  he  married  Miss  Harriet  Denison  Butler,  of 
Northampton,  Mass.  He  is  one  of  the  few  men  of  genius  who 
have  attained  distinction  as  poet  and  painter.  His  poem  entitled 
"  The  Closing  Scene"  is  said  by  an  English  critic  to  "  be  unques 
tionably  the  best  American  poem  we  have,"  and  "  an  addition  to 
the  permanent  stock  of  poetry  in  the  English  language." 

18 


2O6  THOMAS    BUCHANAN    READ. 

THE   CLOSING   SCENE. 
Published  by  permission  of  the  J.  B.  Lippincott  Company. 

[THIN  his  sober  realm  of  leafless  trees 
The  russet  year  inhaled  the  dreamy  air, 

Like  some  tanned  reaper  in  his  hour  of  ease, 
When  all  the  fields  are  lying  brown   and 
bare. 

The  gray  barns,  looking  from  their  hazy  hills 
O'er  the  dim  waters  widening  in  the  vales, 

Sent  down  the  air  a  greeting  to  the  mills 
On  the  dull  thunder  of  alternate  flails. 

All  sights  were  mellowed  and  all  sounds  subdued ; 

The  hills  seemed  farther  and  the  streams  sang  low  ; 
As  in  a  dream  the  distant  woodman  hewed 

His  winter  log  with  many  a  muffled  blow. 

The  embattled  forests,  erewhile  armed  in  gold, 
Their  banners  bright  with  many  a  martial  hue, 

Now  stood  like  some  sad  beaten  host  of  old, 
Withdrawn  afar  in  Time's  remotest  blue. 

On  slumberous  wings  the  vulture  held  his  flight ; 

The  dove  scarce  heard  his  sighing  mate's  complaint ; 
And,  like  a  star  slow  drowning  in  the  light, 

The  village  church-vane  seemed  to  pale  and  faint. 

The  sentinel  cock  upon  the  hill-side  crew — 
Crew  thrice,  and  all  was  stiller  than  before; 

Silent,  till  some  replying  warder  blew 

His  alien  horn,  and  then  was  heard  no  more. 

Where  erst  the  jay,  within  the  elm's  tall  crest, 

Made  garrulous  trouble  round  her  unfledged  young ; 

And  where  the  oriole  hung  her  swaying  nest, 
By  every  light  wind  like  a  censer  swung : — 

Where  sang  the  noisy  masons  of  the  eaves, 

The  busy  swallows,  circling  ever  near, 
Foreboding,  as  the  rustic  mind  believes, 

An  early  harvest  and  a  plenteous  year: — 


THOMAS    BUCHANAN    READ.  2O/ 

Where  every  bird  that  charmed  the  vernal  feast 
Shook  the  sweet  slumber  from  its  wings  at  morn, 

And  warned  the  reaper  of  the  rosy  east, — 
All  now  was  songless,  empty,  and  forlorn. 

Alone  from  out  the  stubble  piped  the  quail, 

While   croaked    the   crow  through  all  the  dreamy 
gloom ; 

Alone  the  pheasant  drumming  in  the  vale 
Made  echo  to  the  distant  cottage  loom. 

There  was  no  bud,  no  bloom  upon  the  bowers; 

The  spiders  wove  their  thin  shrouds  night  by  night ; 
The  thistledown,  the  only  ghost  of  flowers, 

Sailed  slowly  by — passed  noiseless  out  of  sight. 

Amid  all  this,  in  this  most  cheerless  air, 

And  where  the  woodbine  shed  upon  the  porch 

Its  crimson  leaves,  as  if  the  year  stood  there, 
Firing  the  floor  with  its  inverted  torch ; 

Amid  all  this,  the  centre  of  the  scene, 

The  white-haired  matron,  with  monotonous  tread, 

Plied  the  swift  wheel,  and,  with  her  joyless  mien, 
Sat,  like  a  Fate,  and  watched  the  flying  thread. 

She  had  known  Sorrow ;  he  had  walked  with  her, 
Oft  supped,  and  broke  the  bitter  ashen  crust ; 

And  in  the  dead  leaves  still  she  heard  the  stir 
Of  his  black  mantle  trailing  in  the  dust. 

While  yet  her  cheek  was  bright  with  summer  bloom 
Her  country  summoned,  and  she  gave  her  all; 

And  twice  war  bowed  to  her  his  sable  plume, — 
Regave  the  swords  to  rust  upon  her  wall. 

Regave  the  swords ;  but  not  the  hand  that  drew, 

And  struck  for  liberty  its  dying  blow ; 
Nor  him  who,-  to  his  sire  and  country  true, 

Fell  'mid  the  ranks  of  the  invading  foe. 

Long,  but  not  loud,  the  droning  wheel  went  on, 
Like  the  low  murmur  of  a  hive  at  noon  ; 

Long,  but  not  loud,  the  memory  of  the  gone 

Breathed  through  her  lips  a  sad  and  tremulous  tune. 


2O8     .  THOMAS   BUCHANAN   READ. 


At  last  the  thread  was  snapped, — her  head  was  bowed  ; 

Life  dropped  the  distaff  through  his  hands  serene, — 
And  loving  neighbors  smoothed  her  careful  shroud, 

While  Death  and  Winter  closed  the  autumn  scene. 


THE   STRANGER   ON   THE   SILL. 
By  permission  of  the  J.  B.  Lippincott  Company. 

ETWEEN  broad  fields  of  wheat  and  corn 
Is  the  lowly  home  where  I  was  born  ; 
The  peach-tree  leans  against  the  wall, 
And  the  woodbine  wanders  over  all ; 
There  is  the  shaded  door-way  still, 
But  the  stranger's  foot  has  crossed  the  sill. 

There  is  the  barn — and,  as  of  yore, 

I  can  smell  the  hay  from  the  open  door, 

And  see  the  busy  swallows'  throng, 

And  hear  the  peewee's  mournful  song ; 

But  the  stranger  comes — oh  !  painful  proof — 

His  sheaves  are  piled  to  the  heated  roof. 

There  is  the  orchard — the  very  trees 
Where  my  childhood  knew  long  hours  of  ease, 
And  watched  the  shadowy  moments  run 
Till  my  life  imbibed  more  shade  than  sun  : 
The  swing  from  the  bough  still  sweeps  the  air, 
But  the  stranger's  children  are  swinging  there. 

There  bubbles  the  shady  spring  below, 

With  its  bulrush  brook  where  the  hazels  grow; 

'Twas  there  I  found  the  calamus  root, 

And  watched  the  minnows  poise  and  shoot, 

And  heard  the  robin  lave  his  wing: — 

But  the  stranger's  bucket  is  at  the  spring. 

/ 

Oh,  ye  who  daily  cross  the  sill, 
Step  lightly,  for  I  love  it  still ; 
And  when  you  crowd  the  old  barn  eaves, 
Then  think  what  countless  harvest  sheaves 


MARTHA   B.    RUTH.  2CX) 

Have  passed  within  that  scented  door, 
To  gladden  eyes  that  are  no  more. 

Deal  kindly  with  these  orchard  trees ; 
And  when  your  children  crowd  your  knees, 
Their  sweetest  fruit  they  shall  impart, 
As  if  old  memories  stirred  their  heart : 
To  youthful  sport  still  leave  the  swing, 
And  in  sweet  reverence  hold  the  spring. 


MARTHA   B.   RUTH. 


MARTHA  B.  RUTH,  daughter  of  Justinian  and  Tacy  T.  Ken- 
derdine,  was  born  in  West  Nantmeal  Township,  April  21,  1835. 
Her  education  was  obtained  at  the  public  schools,  and  at  the  Ken- 
net  Square  Boarding-School,  then  kept  by  Samuel  Martin.  She 
wrote  poetry  when  about  fourteen  years  of  age.  At  the  sugges 
tion  of  her  teacher,  Susanna  Dance,  some  of  her  poems  were  pub 
lished  in  the  Register  and  Examiner  and  the  Independent  Herald 
of  West  Chester.  October  n,  1855,  she  was  married  to  M.  T. 
Ruth.  For  some  years  after  her  marriage  she  had  little  leisure  for 
writing,  but  later  in  life  found  time  to  engage  in  literary  pursuits. 
Her  parents  were  members  of  the  Society  of  Friends,  but  after 
her  marriage  she  joined  the  Baptist  Church,  of  which  she  con 
tinued  to  be  an  exemplary  member  until  her  death,  which  oc 
curred  July  8,  1886.  Her  poems  are  well  written,  chaste,  and 
beautiful. 


A   BRIGHTER  WORLD   THAN  THIS. 

KNOW  this  world  is  beautiful,  but,  far  beyond 

the  skies, 
They  tell  me  that  a  happier  realm,  a  world  far 

brighter  lies, 

Where  reigns  in  everlasting  joy  a  fair  angelic  band, 
And  that  no  sorrow  enters  there, — it  is  the  spirit  land. 

They  say  the  pleasures  here  below,   compared  with 

those  above, 
Are  but  an  outline  sketch  of  His,  our  Holy  Father's 

love; 
o  18* 


2IO  MARTHA   B.   RUTH. 


That  there  all  tears  are  wiped  away  which  here  our 

pathway  dim, 
That  all  united  find  a  home  and  live  in  peace  with 

Him. 

Why  should  we  mourn  when  friends  depart,  to  enter 

on  that  road 
Which  leads  to  scenes  more  fair  than  ours,  within  a 

blessed  abode, 
Where   fadeless   flowers   forever  bloom,   and   "  living 

waters"  flow, 
That  those  who  drink  of  heaven's  pure  stream  no  thirst 

again  may  know  ? 

We  love  to  view  the  beauteous  things  that  ever  meet 

the  eye, 

But  earthly  pleasures  all  will  fade  and  from  before  us  fly ; 
This  life  is  but  a  varied  scene  of  pleasure  and  of  care, 
Then  let  us  win  that  land  of  rest,  and  dwell  forever 

there. 

At  times  the  spirit  soars  from  earth,  amid  those  realms 

above, 
And  longs  to  change  its  chilling  smiles  for  those  of 

heavenly  love ; 

Amid  the  busy  din  of  life  it  fills  the  soul  with  bliss, 
To  know  that  God  has  promised  us  a  brighter  world 

than  this. 


NATURE'S   MUSIC. 

HERE  is  music  all  about  us, 

Far  above,  around,  below ; 
In  the  falling  dew  of  heaven, 

In  the  pure  and  pearly  snow ; 
In  the  chilling  blasts  of  winter, 

As  they  whistle  o'er  our  path; 
In  the  summer's  gentle  breezes, 

In  the  roaring  tempest's  wrath. 

There  is  music  in  the  twilight, 
As  the  evening  zephyrs  sigh, 

When  the  golden  rays  of  sunset 
Light  with  beauty  earth  and  sky. 


t 
SLATER    B.  RUSSELL.  211 


There  is  music  in  the  spring-time 
As  we  view  each  fairy  scene, 

When  the  fields  are  spread  before  us, 
Decked  in  garments  rich  and  green. 

There  is  music  in  the  wildwood, 

In  each  flower  that  lifts  its  head ; 
In  the  murmuring  streamlet  dancing 

In  its  pure  and  pebbly  bed  ; 
In  the  calm  and  silver  moonlight 

Playing  on  the  ocean  wave, 
Breathing  forth  a  dirge-like  anthem 

O'er  the  gallant  sailor's  grave. 

Hearken  to  the  merry  songsters  ! 

There  is  music  in  each  note, 
As  some  blissful,  fleeting  vision, 

Richest  strains  around  us  float. 
As  a  golden  dream  it  cometh 

With  the  memory  of  the  past, 
Gently  stealing  o'er  our  spirits, 

Far  too  pure  for  earth  to  last. 

Thus,  where'er  our  footsteps  wander, 

Sweet  and  sad  those  whisp'rings  come, 
As  some  gentle  angel  wooing 

Back  the  spirit  to  its  home. 
In  that  brighter  land  above  us 

Still  shall  rise  these  songs  of  bliss, 
Heavenly  music,  never  ceasing, 

Richer,  sweeter  far  than  this. 


SLATER   B.   RUSSELL. 

SLATER  BROWN  RUSSELL,  son  of  John  N.  and  Amelia  (Kirk) 
Russell,  was  born  in  Drumore  Township,  Lancaster  County,  Pa., 
June  1 8,  1834.  He  received  a  liberal  education,  having  attended 
the  London  Grove  Friends'  School,  the  Jordan  Bank  Seminary,  and 
the  Millersville  Normal  School.  In  the  summer  of  1857  he  made 
an  extended  tour  through  Europe,  and  soon  after  his  return  pub 
lished  several  articles,  under  the  title  of  "  Memories,"  in  the 
Page  Monthly,  which  were  much  admired  and  extensively  copied. 
In  1857  he  became  principal  of  Locust  Grove  Academy,  Lancaster 


212  SLATER   B.  RUSSELL. 


County,  and  subsequently  of  Pleasant  Valley  Seminary,  near  Ox 
ford.  On  the  1st  of  May,  1861,  he  was  appointed  corresponding 
clerk  in  the  United  States  War  Department,  which  position  he 
held  until  May,  1867,  when  he  resigned  on  account  of  impaired 
health,  and  returned  to  his  father's  farm,  where  he  spent  the  en 
suing  three  years.  He  has  resided  in  West  Chester  since  1875, 
engaged  in  the  real-estate  business,  and  in  the  performance  of  the 
duties  appertaining  to  the  office  of  Justice  of  the  Peace,  to  which 
he  has  twice  been  elected.  Mr.  Russell,  in  1861,  was  married  to 
Miss  Amelia  R.  Levis,  daughter  of  Norris  Levis,  of  Cecil  County, 
Md.  *  Four  daughters  have  blessed  this  union.  Mr.  Russell  has 
seldom  attempted  to  court  the  muses,  but,  to  use  the  language  of 
another,  "  there  is  a  certain  sort  of  delicate  imagery  abounding  in 
his  prose  writings  which  makes  them  read  like  poetry." 


JASMIN. 

HE  clouds  like  a  leaden  curtain 
Were  hung  against  the  sky ; 

The  earth  was  robed  in  winter, 
And  the  winds  went  wailing  by. 

I  came  into  my  study : 

A  delicate  perfume, 
Like  a  faint,  ethereal  presence, 

Pervaded  all  the  room. 

So  faint  was  the  misty  fragrance, 
So  mild  did  the  presence  seem, 

It  was  less  of  the  earth  about  me 
Than  the  memory  of  a  dream. 

I  knew  'twas  the  breath  of  summer, 
Though  winter's  icy  hand 

Had  bound  the  streams  with  a  fetter 
And  whitened  with  snow  the  land. 

I  searched  from  floor  to  ceiling, 
I  questioned  each  leafy  friend, 

But  they  made  no  sign  nor  answer 
To  help  me  to  comprehend. 

Then  over  against  my  window, , 
Concealed  in  its  leafy  bower, 

As  if  to  hide  away  from  me, 
I  found  a  jasmin  flower. 


FRANK    H.    STAUFF.ER.  213 

And  I  marvelled  that  the  sweetness 

Of  so  frail  and  tiny  a  thing 
Should  banish  the  dreary  winter, 

And  bring  in  its  stead  the  spring. 

My  heart  was  sad  and  weary 

With  its  weight  of  sorrow  and  care, 

Till  life  itself  seemed  a  burden 
Almost  too  great  to  bear. 

Between  my  soul  and  the  sunshine 

There  hung,  like  a  leaden  pall, 
A  cloud  whose  terrible  darkness 

Descended  and  covered  all. 

Then  through  my  heart's  grim  winter 

The  gladsome  summer  smiled, 
For  my  ear  had  caught  the  music 

Of  the  gentle  voice  of  a  child. 

It  brought  the  welcome  sunshine 

And  banished  the  clouds  away; 
It  brought  to  my  life's  December 

The  delicate  flowers  of  May. 

And  I  call  this  child  my  jasmin 

As  I  fold  her  to  my  breast, 
And  think  of  the  balm  supernal 

She  brought  to  my  life's  unrest. 


FRANK   H.   STAUFFER. 

FRANCIS  HENRY  STAUFFER  was  born  in  Philadelphia,  October 
3,  1832.  His  father,  Jacob  Stauffer,  was  of  Swiss  descent,  was  a 
botanist  and  entomologist  of  considerable  note,  and  died  at  Lan 
caster,  Pa.,  in  1880.  His  mother,  Sarah  Birch,  was  born  in  Not 
tinghamshire,  England,  and  was  a  descendant  of  the  Earl  of  More- 
land. 

Mr.  Stauffer  graduated  in  the  school  of  journalism,  and  began  to 
write  for  the  press  before  he  had  attained  his  majority.  At  the 
age  of  sixteen  he  wrote  a  poem  entitled  "  To  the  Stars,"  which 
was  so  meritorious  that  it  was  for  a  time  supposed  to  have  been 


214  FRANK    H.  STAUFFER. 


written  by  George  D.  Prentice.  He  established  the  Mount  Joy 
(Pa.)  Herald  (now  in  its  thirty-fifth  year),  and  filled  editorial 
positions  on  the  Lancaster  Inland  Daily,  The  Sunday  Mercury, 
Philadelphia,  The  Woonsocket  Patriot,  Saturday  Night,  and  the 
Philadelphia  Daily  Evening  Call.  He  is  a  contributor  to  St. 
Nicholas,  Our  Little  Ones,  Harper's  Young  Folks,  Good  House 
keeping,  etc.  He  is  also  somewhat  of  a  humorist,  and  not  a  few 
of  the  cleanly-cut  "  squibs"  which  appear  in  Harper's  Bazar, 
Life,  Tid-Bits,  and  the  Detroit  Free  Press  are  from  his  pen. 

He  has  published  two  volumes,  "  Queer,  Quaint,  and  Quizzical," 
and  "  Towards  Sunset,"  a  collection  of  his  poems.  The  latter 
were  received  with  great  favor.  Joseph  A.  Turner,  M.A.,  Pro 
fessor  of  English  and  Modern  Languages,  Hollins  Institute,  Vir 
ginia,  said  of  them,  "  These  poems  possess  unusual  purity  and 
healthfulness,  a  fact  greatly  to  be  commended  at  a  time  when  so 
much  of  the  poetry  published  has  a  tendency  to  sap  one's  most 
cherished  beliefs." 

Mr.  Stauffer  was  Assistant  Assessor  of  Internal  Revenue  for  Lan 
caster  County  under  President  Lincoln.  He  has  been  residing  for 
the  last  thirteen  years  at  a  pretty  home  in  Berwyn,  Chester  County, 
where  he  is  an  elder  in  the  Presbyterian  Church,  superintendent 
of  the  Sabbath-school,  and  foremost  in  every  project  of  public 
interest. 


WATCHING  THE   DAWN. 

HE  shadows  fill  the  vale  below, 
The  mountain-tops  are  all  aglow  ; 
The  dew  is  clinging  to  the  thorn, 
The  lark  salutes  the  rosy  morn  ; 
With  fragrance  all  the  air  made  sweet, 
A  dawn  with  perfect  charms  replete. 

The  clouds  in  pearly  vapors  lie, 
A  slumb'ring  silence  fills  the  sky ; 
Still  wider  grows  the  harbor-bar, 
Still  dimmer  grows  the  morning  star  ; 
How  like  the  mazy  fancies  of  a  dream, 
This  soft  bewilderment  of  shade  and  sheen  ! 


TO   THE  STARS. 

WEET  watchers  of  the  night, 
Bejewelling  the  summer  air, 
Say,  are  there  "many  mansions"  there, 
Beyond  those  gates  so  wide  and  fair? 


FRANK    H.    STAUFFER. 


O  spirits  of  the  dead  ! 
As  such  ye  sometimes  seem  to  me  ; 
As  such  I  sometimes  talk  to  ye, 
And  ask  of  things  that  are  to  be. 

Ye  send  no  answer  back  ! 
'Tis  to  reprove  a  faith  so  weak  ; 
It  is  to  make  me  pure  and  meek, 
And  happiness  in  Christ  to  seek. 

Shine  on,  ye  twinkling  orbs  ! 
.And  when  my  spirit  wings  its  flight, 
Blest  with  the  knowledge  of  the  right, 
Mark  out  my  pathway  through  the  night  ! 


A   NAME   THAT   WAS   NOT   MINE. 

OU  turned  your  face  away  from  me, 

You  heard  not  what  I  said, 
Nor  knew  how  bitter  were  to  me 

The  weary  tears  I  shed, 
But  gazed  far  out  upon  the  sea, 
With  face  white  as  the  dead. 

I  felt  your  curls  upon  my  cheek, 

I  saw  your  dark  eyes  shine ; 
I  heard  your  white  lips  gently  speak 

A  name  that  was  not  mine. 
My  heart  grew  desolate  and  bleak, 

Yet  made  no  outward  sign. 

I  spoke  not  of  my  love  for  you, 
That  throbbed  in  heart  and  brain  j 

How  dark  the  shades  of  ev'ning  grew  ! 
How  poignant  grew  my  pain  ! 

How  meaningly  the  sea-winds  blew ! 
How  damp  the  misty  rain  ! 

In  sullenness  I  bit  my  lips, 
And  felt  my  heart  gro^v  chill, 

Although  those  burning  finger-tips 
Made  all  my  pulses  thrill. 

My  hopes  went  down  like  freighted  ships 
When  all  is  calm  and  still ! 


2l6  MARY   E.  SCHOFIELD. 


MARY   E.  SCHOFIELD. 


THE  subject  of  this  sketch  is  the  daughter  of  Joseph  E.  Ander 
son,  son  of  Isaac  Anderson,  a  native  of  Scotland,  and  Rebecca 
M.  Workizer,  a  descendant  of  Christian  Workizer,  mentioned  in 
the  sketch  of  the  Thropp  sisters  in  this  book.  She  was  born  near 
Phcenixville,  January  5,  1826,  and  married  Albert  R.  Schofield,  a 
member  of  the  Philadelphia  bar,  March  29,  1853.  At  this  time  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Schofield  reside  at  Upper  Roxborough,  Philadelphia. 
Mrs.  Schofield  wrote  much  poetry  in  early  life,  and  was  a  fre 
quent  contributor  to  the  Phcenixville  Pioneer  when  that  journal 
was  edited  by  Bayard  Taylor. 


OUR    BIRD. 

HEN  autumn  winds  were  scattering 

The  sere  and  yellow  leaves, 
And  wailing  with  their  low  deep  tones 

Among  the  homestead  trees  ; 
When  frost  had  nipt  each  budding  flower 

That  round  our  cottage  grew, 
And  autumn  over  nature's  face 

A  solemn  shadow  threw, — 

We  knew  that  dreary  winter-time 

Was  coming  on  apace, 
That  not  a  bird  nor  budding  flower 

Would  gladden  nature's  face. 
We  knew  that  tears  would  chase  the  smiles 

From  all  the  shrouded  earth, 
And  naught  remain  to  bless  our  hearts 

Save  our  own  household  hearth. 

But  in  that  dreary  autumn  time 

There  came  a  wingless  bird  ; 
It  cheered  us  with  its  carollings, 

As  sweet  as  e'er  were  heard  j 
Peerless  and  bright  it  came  to  us, 

That  little  fairy  thing, 
And  though  'twas  winter  o'er  the  earth, 

Yet  in  our  home  'twas  spring. 


MARY  E.  SCHOFIELD. 


The  winter  passed  ;  we  scarce  knew  how 

We  blest  the  joyous  spring  — 
And,  nestling  in  our  happy  hearts, 

We  felt  our  birdling  cling; 
Its  gentle  music  sweetly  rose, 

So  gladsome  and  so  clear, 
No  bird  that  warbled  in  the  woods 

To  us  was  half  so  dear. 

Our  bird  is  still  a  tiny  thing  ; 

It  creepeth  everywhere; 
Anon  it  climbs  to  mamma's  knee, 

Or  journeys  round  a  chair. 
It  lisps  papa  quite  prettily, 

And  many  roguish  things  ; 
Our  bird  would  sure  an  angel  be, 

But,  ah,  it  has  not  wings  ! 

Its  sparkling  eyes  are  bright  and  clear, 

Yet  of  the  darkest  blue  ; 
They  mind  me  well  of  violets, 

Filled  with  the  morning  dew  ; 
Its  rosy  lips  resemble  much 

A  rose-bud  cleft  in  twain  ; 
Sure  there  was  ne'er  a  bird  like  ours, 

Or  ne'er  will  be  again. 


THE   MAIDEN   LOVER. 

OST  anxiously  I've  looked  for  thee 
Throughout  the  livelong  day, 

And  ever  and  anon  I've  scanned 
The  dusty  old  highway. 

To  catch  a  glimpse  of  thy  loved  form, 
Alas  !  I've  looked  in  vain  ; 

I  sigh,  and  from  the  casement  go 
But  to  return  again. 

I  feel  the  pangs  of  "  hope  deferred" 
Rankling  within  my  breast ; 

My  weary  brain  is  ill  at  ease, 
And  strives  in  vain  to  rest. 
19 


2l8  REV.    MATTHIAS   SHEELEIGH,   D.D. 

Night's  sable  robe  is  o'er  the  earth, 
But  still  my  heart's  with  thee, 

And  oh,  how  often  have  I  breathed, 
"Why  comes  he  not  to  me?" 

But  hark  !  along  the  gravelled  walk 
A  hastening  step  is  near, 

And  joy  now  fills  my  bounding  heart, 
The  looked-for  one  is  here. 


REV.    MATTHIAS   SHEELEIGH,   D.D. 

THIS  author  was  born  in  Charlestown,  not  far  from  old  Pike- 
land  church,  twelve  miles  north  of  West  Chester,  December  29, 
1821.  He  is  the  son  of  Jesse  and  Mary  (Orner)  Sheeleigh.  The 
family  is  of  German  extraction,  and  originally  spelled  the  name 
Schillich.  His  paternal  great-grandfather  settled  in  Skippack, 
Montgomery  County,  about  forty  years  before  the  war  of  the  Revo 
lution. 

His  father  dying  in  early  life,  his  mother  removed  to  Kimberton, 
where  his  boyhood  was  spent.  His  early  education  was  obtained 
at  the  public  schools  and  a  select  school  at  West  Chester.  Sub 
sequently  he  taught  school  at  intervals  in  Pennsylvania  and  New 
Jersey,  and  prepared  himself  for  his  profession  in  Pennsylvania 
College,  at  Gettysburg,  and  the  Lutheran  Theological  Seminary  at 
that  place.  In  1885,  Newberry  College,  South  Carolina,  conferred 
upon  him  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Divinity. 

Mr.  Sheeleigh  entered  the  ministry  of  the  Lutheran  Church, 
October  4,  1852,  and  has  been  pastor  at  Valatie,  N.  Y.,  Miners- 
ville,  Pa.,  Philadelphia,  Stewartsville,  N.  J.,  and,  for  the  last 
twenty  years,  at  Whitemarsh  and  Upper  Dublin,  Pa.,  with  residence 
at  Fort  Washington.  He  has  borne  a  prominent  part  in  the  ec 
clesiastical  councils  of  the  church,  and  occupied  many  of  its 
prominent  places  of  trust  and  honor. 

In  1859  he  married  Miss  Sabina  M.  Diller,  of  Lebanon,  Pa., 
whose  ancestors  came  from  Germany  and  settled  in  New  Holland, 
Lancaster  County,  a  century  and  a  half  ago. 

In  addition  to  his  pastoral  labors,  Dr.  Sheeleigh  has  published 
a  number  of  books  of  poetry  and  prose,  and  edited  several 
volumes,  translated  one  volume  from  .the  German,  and  acted  as 
corresponding  editor  of  church  periodicals.  Since  1861  he  has 
edited  the  Lutheran  Sunday-School  Herald,  an  illustrated  monthly 
paper  for  the  young;  and  has  also  edited  The  Lutheran  Almanac 
and  Year-Book  since  1871.  He  is  a  voluminous  and  popular 
writer,  and  many  articles  from  his  pen,  both  in  poetry  and  prose, 


REV.   MATTHIAS   SHEELEIGH,   D.D. 


have  appeared  in  our  best  periodicals.  In  late  years  his  poetry 
has  largely  taken  the  form  of  sonnets  and  of  hymns.  He  has  also 
translated  poetry  from  five  or  six  different  languages.  For  addi 
tional  poems  by  Dr.  Sheeleigh,  see  concluding  pages  of  this 
volume. 


LUTHER-STATUE  UNVEILING. 

Extract  from  a  published  poem  of  twenty-six  stanzas,  read  on 
the  occasion,  in  the  Memorial  Lutheran  Church,  Washington, 
D.C.,  May  20,  1884. 

(HERE  let  it  ever  stand, 

That  form  which  Art  hath  planned, 
That  semblance  wrought  in  bronze ; 
Though  mute  and  destitute  of  motion, 
Around  it  men  shall  bring  devotion — 
Devotion  to  their  God,  and  honor  to  his  sons. 

There,  firm  on  granite  base, 
With  Heav'n-imploring  face, 
That  symbol  stand  through  time ; 
To  speak,  adown  the  lapsing  ages, 
What  history  traced  upon  her  pages 
To  thrill  with  joyfulness  the  men  of  every  clime. 

Stand  !   that  colossal  form, 
Facing  the  rushing  storm, 
Unmoved  as  'neath  the  light ; 
As  Luther  faced  careering  wrath 
Which  o'er  him  fain  would  plough  its  path, 
But  which  in  weakness  broke  before  Jehovah's  might. 

There  let  it  ever  be 
A  sign  of  thought  set  free, 
Of  unbound  tongue  and  will, 

Of  shackles  from  the  conscience  riven, 
Of  wider  field  to  learning  given, 
And  of  God's  Book  unsealed,  all  men  with  joy  to  fill. 


22O  I.  MILTON   SMITH. 

There  let  that  image  stand, 
The  while  the  clinched  hand 
Is  on  the  Bible  pressed, 

In  token  of  the  soul's  appealing 
From  man's  device  to  God's  revealing, 
Of  truth  the  one — the  sure — the  everlasting  test. 

There  let  it  stand  for  aye — 
Long  as  the  orb  of  day 
And  nightly  hosts  behold  ; 

There  stand,  perpetual  witness  giving 
In  praise  to  God,  the  ever-living — 
For  holy,  highest  truth,  which  doth  all  hope  infold. 

Long  as  that  head  shall  there 
Be  lifted  high  in  air, 
Heedless  of  malice  hurled, 

His  work,  whose  fame  is  there  attested, 
Shall  more  and  more  be  manifested, 
As  God's  unfettered  truth  emancipates  the  world. 

Thus,  while  the  centuries, 
Unresting  as  the  seas, 
Roll  onward,  one  by  one, 

This  chosen  of  the  Lord  shall  still 
His  mission  through  the  earth  fulfil, 
Standing,  to  gazing  eyes,  like  Uriel  in  the  sun. 


I.    MILTON    SMITH. 


I.  MILTON  SMITH,  son  of  Isaac  and  Mary  Smith,  worthy  mem 
bers  of  the  Society  of  Friends,  was  born  in  Unionville,  February 
13,  1846,  and  was  educated  at  the  Unionville  Academy,  Green 
wood  Dell,  and  West  Chester  Academy,  then  in  charge  of  W.  F. 
Wyers,  with  whom  he  took  his  first  lessons  in  military  life.  Mr. 
Smith  entered  the  Union  army  in  1864,  just  before  the  close  of  the 
war,  and  at  its  conclusion  was  honorably  discharged.  Subse 
quently  he  attended  college  in  Philadelphia,  where  he  became  ac 
quainted  with  Lidy  Ker,  whom  he  married  in  1868.  His  first 
wife  died  in  1876,  and  he  subsequently  married  Miss  Lizzie  P.  E. 


I.  MILTON   SMITH. 


221 


Eldridge,  daughter  of  S.  T.  Eldridge,  of  Philadelphia.  Mr. 
"Smith  has  a  keen  appreciation  of  the  beautiful  in  nature,  and  oc 
casionally  writes  poems  for  amusement  and  recreation. 


SUMMER   TIME. 

ITH  a  woof  of  sun-threads  golden, 

And  a  warp  of  purple  chain, 
Nature,  as  in  seasons  olden, 

Wears  the  summer  robe  again  ! 
Ever  brighter,  finer,  fairer, 

Grows  the  marvel  of  her  loom, 
As  she  adds,  to  grace  the  wearer, 

Festal  wreath  and  floral  bloom. 

Welcome  summer,  come  to  win  us 

From  our  woes  with  song  and  sheen, 
How  the  weary  heart  within  us 

Freshens  in  the  flood  of  green  ! 
How  the  soul  her  wings  encloses, 

Soars  all  sordid  cares  above, 
As  from  lips  of  evening  roses 

Pours  the  perfumed  breath  of  love. 


EVENTIDE. 

HE  low  wind  swept  among  the  scatter 'd  flowers, 
And  brought  a  strange,  sweet  music  in  its 

sound, 

As  if  sweet  anthems  from  beyond  this  world 
Were  thrilling  all  the  air  that  trembled  round. 


The  sun  had  set,  and  scattered  in  its  path 
A  flood  of  gold  and  crimson  cloud,  so  bright 

With  beauty,  that  it  seemed  as  if  beyond 
Must  lie  the  cloudless  land  of  joy  and  light. 

And  did  some  angel,  with  its  robes  aflame, 
With  burnished  glory,  stand  at  heaven's  gate, 

To  show  us  one  bright  glimpse  of  splendor  there, 
And  teach  our  weary  spirits  how  to  wait? 
19* 


222  THE   SWAYNE   FAMILY. 

And  will  that  gate  be  opened  wide  for  us, 
And  let  our  ransomed  spirits  safely  through, 

Into  the  land  of  joy,  and  light,  and  love, 

Where  we  shall  mingle  with  the  good  and  true  ? 

There  are  some  hours,  by  heaven  supremely  blest, 
That  come  to  us  with  gladness  on  their  wing, 

That  bring  a  holy  meaning  to  our  souls, 
And  music  sweeter  than  the  angels  sing. 

And  there  are  whispers  from  the  land  of  souls, — 
A  world  that  holds  such  untold  wealth  of  bliss, 

That  heaven  in  mercy  sends  us  glimpses  of 
Its  happiness,  to  cheer  our  paths  in  this. 


THE   SWAYNE   FAMILY. 

THE  ancestors  of  this  family  were  originally  from  Denmark, 
but  settled  in  England,  from  whence  Francis  and  Elizabeth 
(Milton)  Swayne,  the  founders  of  the  family  in  Pennsylvania, 
removed  and  settled  in  East  Marlborough  Township,  about  the 
year  1710.  The  family,  since  before  their  removal  to  Pennsylvania, 
have  been  members  of  the  Society  of  Friends,  and  mostly  farmers. 


JOEL   SWAYNE. 

JOEL  SWAYNE,  son  of  Benjamin  and  Susanna  Swayne,  was  born 
May  22,  1804,  and  died  May  9,  1840.  He  was  a  public-spirited 
man,  and  did  much  to  advance  the  cause  of  education,  being  in 
strumental  in  securing  the  adoption  of  the  present  public  school 
system.  He  was  a  member  of  the  State  Legislature  in  1839,  and 
was  a  member  of  that  body  at  the  time  of  his  death.  He  was  an 
indefatigable  student,  and  the  author  of  many  fine  poem-,  some  of 
which  were  published  in  the  periodicals  of  the  day. 


BENJAMIN  W.   SWAYNE. 

BENJAMIN  W.  SWAYNE,  son  of  William  and  Mary  Ann  (Mar 
shall)  Swayne,  and  the  nephew  of  Joel  Swayne,  was  born  in 
Pennsbury  Township,  July  14,  1827.  His  early  life  was  spent 
in  East  Marlborough.  In  1850  he  married  Susan  Bancroft,  of 


JOEL   SWAYNE.  223 


Philadelphia,  and  settled  in  London  Grove  Township,  where  he 
now  resides.  His  first  wife  died  in  1852.  Subsequently  he 
married  Jane  T.  Pennock,  daughter  of  James  and  Amy  Pennock, 
of  West  Marlborough. 

He  was  educated  at  the  public  schools,  and  did  not  write  poetry 
until  late  in  life.  During  the  last  ten  years  he  has  been  a  fre 
quent  contributor  to  the  Village  Record. 


WILLIAM   MARSHALL   SWAYNE. 

WILLIAM  MARSHALL  SWAYNE,  better  known  as  Marshall 
Swayne,  the  sculptor,  is  a  brother  of  Benjamin  W.  Swayne.  He 
was  born  in  Pennsbury  Township,  December  I,  1828.  He  was 
educated  at  the  public  schools,  the  Unionville  Academy,  and 
Westtown  Friends'  School.  When  about  twenty  years  old,  he 
showed  a  predilection  for  the  sculptor's  art.  November  14, 
1850,  he  married  Mary,  daughter  of  Richard  and  Hannah  Barnard, 
of  Newlin  Township.  Mr.  Swayne  accepted  a  position  in  one  of 
the  departments  in  Washington  under  President  Lincoln,  and 
while  there  had  the  honor  of  modelling  the  bust  of  that  distin 
guished  man,  and  many  other  eminent  public  men  of  the  nation. 
He  is  a  writer  of  some  celebrity,  and-  an  occasional  contributor  to 
the  Chester  County  journals. 


EDWARD   SWAYNE. 

EDWARD  SWAYNE,  son  of  Benjamin  and  Sarah  P.  Swayne,  and 
a  second  cousin  of  Benjamin  and  Marshall  Swayne,  was  born  in 
London  Grove  Township,  January  15,  1826,  and  died  November 
1 8,  1846.  He  was  a  genuine  poet,  and,  though  comparatively 
untrained  and  uneducated,  gave  evidence  of  the  possession  of 
great  talent,  which,  had  time  been  allowed  for  its  development, 
would  have  given  him  a  place  among  the  distinguished  writers  of 
his  age.  Though  nearly  half  a  century  has  elapsed  since  his 
freed  spirit  passed  to  the  light  of  eternal  day,  many  yet  remember 
the  charm  of  his  genial  presence  and  turn  with  sorrow  to  their 
early  loss. 


JOEL    SWAYNE. 

THE   FALL   OF   MISSOLONGHI. 

"  At  the  siege  of  Missolonghi,  Capsalis  (one  of  the  primates) 
conducted  to  the  powder  magazine  the  weak,  the  wounded,  the 
sick,  the  aged,  the  women,  and  the  children,  resolved  to  bury  them 
alive  in  its  ruins.  Mothers  there  tranquilly  pressed  their  infants  to 
their  bosoms,  relying  on  Capsalis.  They  wept  not, — they  had  no 


224  JOEL  SWAYNE. 


parting  to  apprehend, — death  was  about  to  unite  them  forever. 
From  the  size  and  solidity  of  the  building,  the  conquerors,  sup 
posing  the  wealth  of  the  city  was  there  deposited,  crowded  around 
it,  trying  to  force  the  doors,  windows,  and  roof.  Capsalis  now 
applied  the  match,  and  two  thousand  Turks  perished  with  the 
Greeks.  The  explosion  was  so  violent  that  houses  were  thrown 
down,  large  chasms  produced  in  the  earth,  and  part  of  the  town 
inundated  by  the  sea." 

HEN  Greece,  long  slumbering  Greece,  awoke, 
And  nobly  spurned  the  Turkish  yoke, — 
When  Ibrahim's  fierce  and  servile  band, 
In  hostile  squadrons  swarm'd  the  land, — 

And  when,  though  long  defended  well, 

The  fated  Missolonghi  fell : 

A  mournful  crowd  within  the  tow'r 

Await  the  dread  and  fearful  hour. 

There  stood  the  stripling,  early  fired 

By  patriot  words  with  glory's  flame, 

Who  listened  till  his  soul,  inspired, 

Planned  daring  deeds  of  future  fame. 

But  now  those  dazzling  dreams  are  o'er, 

And  hope's  bright  beacon  burns  no  more ; 

He  yields  him  to  his  darkened  fate, 

But  still  he  longs  to  wreak  his  hate 

On  earth's  grim  tyrants,  one  and  all, 

And  burst  oppression's  mad'ning  thrall. 
There  kneel'd  the  maiden,  young  in  years, 

But  all  unmoved  by  maiden  fears. 

A  summer's  day  her  life  had  been, — 

A  thornless  path,  a  flow'ry  scene. 

Scarce  on  her  calm  and  beauteous  face 

One  touch  of  passion  could  you  trace ; 

Scarce  had  the  hand  of  with'ring  care 

Dimm'd  one  bright  tint  that  blossom'd  there. 

A  hero  woo'd, — they  breath'd  their  love 

Beneath  the  moonlit  olive  grove.; 

It  seem'd  to  them  a  holier  spell 

Upon  that  charming  landscape  fell; 

A  softer  radiance  linger'd  there, — 

A  balmier  fragrance  fill'd  the  air. 

But  sudden  as  the  dark  simoom, 

Spread  on  their  fate  a  fearful  gloom. 

Once  more  the  civil  strife  is  stirr'd, 

Once  more  the  battle-cry  is  heard. 


JOEL   SWAYNE.  22$ 


Around  the  turban'd  leaguers  pour'd, 
His  country  claim'd  her  hero's  sword  ; 
A  gallant  band  around  him  stood, 
And  bathed  their  swords  in  Paynim  blood. 
In  that  dread  hour  he  fell,  he  died, 
And  she  who  should  have  been  a  bride 
By  fate  was  widowed,  though  unwed, — 
A  maid  affianced  with  the  dead ; 
But  in  her  eye  and  on  her  brow 
A  frenzied  hope  is  beaming  now ; 
And  cherish'd  still  her  virgin  faith, 
She  claims  a  lover's  troth  in  death. 

There  bowed  the  mother  o'er  her  child, 
With  looks  and  words  of  anguish  wild; 
Talk'd  of  its  sire's  achievements  done, 
The  mead  of  praise  his  valor  won, 
'Till  rapt  to  calmness  o'er  her  theme, 
Her  eye  resumed  its  tranquil  beam. 
^  In  life's  last  prayer  her  babe  she  blest, 
'  And  strain'd  it  fondly  to  her  breast. 

There  sat  the  old,  whom  Moslem  ire 
Had  doom'd  to  torture,  rack,  and  fire, 
Familiar  with  a  tyrant's  rage, 
And  worn  with  service  more  than  age ; 
Far  readier  to  demand  a  grave 
Than  crouch  and  be  again  a  slave. 

There,  too,  the  wounded  warrior  lay, 
Proud  victim  of  that  hard-fought  day ; 
And  there  the  lov'd  and  honor'd  dead, 
Who  bravely  battled,  freely  bled  ! 
By  faithful  friendship  thither  borne, 
To  save  from  plunder,  insult,  scorn. 

Here  gathered  all  whose  hearts  must  mourn 
The  tend'rest  ties  of  Nature  torn  ; 
Here  gather 'd  all  else  forced  to  roam, 
Far  from  their  country,  kindred,  home  ; 
Here  all  whose  souls  the  boon  disdain'd 
Of  life,  by  base  submission  gain'd, 
And  all  who  would  not,  could  not  fly, 
To  shun  their  desp'rate  destiny. 
There  gather'd  all  that  space  allow'd, 
A  silent  self-devoted  crowd  ; 
Here  Capsalis,  ne'er  known  to  swerve, 
Stood  fix'd  in  purpose,  strong  in  nerve. 

P 


226  BENJAMIN    W.  SWAYNE. 

Close  at  his  side  the  torch  was  seen, 
And  there  the  full-stor'd  magazine  / 
Far  off  they  heard  the  clash,  the  jar, 
The  furious  shock  of  savage  war  ; 
Far  off  they  saw,  with  watchful  eyes, 
The  Cross  descend,  the  Crescent  rise ; 
Then  nearer,  clearer,  round  them  rose 
The  eager  cry  of  conq'ring  foes. 
Without  was  roar  and  deaf'ning  din, 
But  not  a  whisper  stirr'd  within. 
No  fait* ring  bosom  breath'd  a  sigh, 
No  tears  bespoke  one  failing  eye ; 
No  sundering  ties  had  they  to  fear, 
No  fond  adieus  were  uttered  there ; 
No  parting  charge  to  loved  ones  given, 
At  once  they  all  would  wake  in  heav'n. 
Two  thousand  Moslems  storm' d  without, 
And  raised  at  once  the  assaulting  shout. 
The  fearful  moment  now  had  come 
To  sweep  them  swiftly  to  their  doom  ! 
Brave  Capsalis,  with  dauntless  hand, 
Now  seized  and  hurl'd  the  blazing  brand, - 
An  instant  flash,  an  awful  glare, 
A  shock  terrific  rent  the  air ; 
Bewild'ring  havoc,  wild  and  wide, 
Burst  fiercely  forth  on  every  side  ! 
The  strongest  bulwarks  crumble  down, 
The  troubled  sea  invades  the  town  ; 
Messenia  shook  from  shore  to  shore  ; 
The  startled  Morea  heard  the  roar, 
And  trembled  at  the  fearful  knell 
That  told  when  Missolonghi  fell ! 


BENJAMIN   W.    SWAYNE. 
ADDRESS  TO  THE   STARS. 

E  twinkling  luminaries,  swung  in  space, 
Upheld  and  guided  by  a  power  divine, 
Tell  me  if  in  your  distant  realms  afar 
Ye  hold  communion  with  your  sister  stars? 
Does  the  same  light  flash  from  yon  distant  orb 
That  show'd  to  the  wise  men  of  Judea 


BENJAMIN   W.  S  WAYNE. 


The  manger  where  the  infant  Christ  was  born  ? 

The  seed  and  substance  of  the  living  God, 

And  sent  to  suffer  for  the  sins  of  men. 

Is  there  an  atmosphere  existing  there, 

And  teeming  with  vitality  like  ours? 

Does  man  there  lord  it  o'er  his  fellow-man, 

And  make,  as  here,  accumulated  wealth 

The  passport  to  the  higher  walks  of  life? 

Does  war  and  pestilence  invade  your  sphere, 

And  storms  and  earthquakes  rock  you  to  the  core,  — 

Volcanoes  spurt  their  hissing,  seething  mass 

Of  fiery  vapor  to  your  very  skies, 

And  shake  you  up  with  consternation  dire? 

Or  are  ye,  twinkling  stars,  a  paradise 

For  souls  emancipated  from  the  clay, 

That  soar  to  distant  fields  of  pleasure  there, 

And  bask  forever  in  eternal  joys  ? 

Ye  stars,  that  fill  infinity  of  space, 

Boundless,  illimitable,  none  can  see 

Nor  mind  conceive  the  vastness  of  the  plan 

By  which  you're  guided  on  your  distant  course; 

Where  countless  stars  round  countless  suns  revolve, 

System  on  system,  countless  worlds  extend 

Through  the  vast  realms  of  nature's  broad  expanse, 

Control'd  by  power  of  Deity  supreme. 

Strange,  that  the  erring  mortal  cannot  see 

The  handiwork  of  God  in  nature's  plan  ; 

That  all  the  parts  of  a  stupendous  whole 

Are  but  the  working  of  a  master  mind 

That  guides  the  planets  in  their  mazy  flight, 

And  holds,  as  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand, 

The  destiny  of  nations  and  of  men  ! 

When  night  her  sable  curtain  closes  round, 

And  worldly  cares  press  on  thee  as  a  weight, 

Go  out  beneath  the  starry  canopy 

And  hold  communion  with  thy  Maker  there. 


228  WILLIAM    M.  SWAYNE. 

WILLIAM    M.   SWAYNE. 
ORISON. 


N  the  earth  are  we  sojourning, 

Only  for  a  little  while ; 
All  the  treasure  worth  the  earning, 
All  the  wealth,  and  power,  and  learning 

Come  by  prayerful,  earnest  toil. 

When  the  wine-press  we  are  treading, 
When  the  path  is  steep  and  rough, 
Conscious  that  thy  hand  is  leading, 
And  our  souls  the  travail  needing, 
Grant  us  grace  and  strength  enough. 

All  our  ways  are  in  thy  keeping — 

Lead  us,  wheresoe'er  it  be ; 
Let  the  sowing  and  the  reaping, — 
E'en  the  garner,  filled  to  heaping, — 

Be  an  offering  to  thee. 

On  thy  bounty  still  relying, 

May  we  ever  grateful  be ; 
With  thy  laws  divine  complying, 
And  the  order  still  descrying, 

Live  in  harmony  with  thee  ! 

In  the  faith  fore'er  abiding, 
From  the  largess  of  thy  love, 

For  our  every  need  providing, 

In  thy  promises  confiding, 
Keep  us  for  thy  realm  above  ! 

Where  our  life  on  earth,  so  fleeting, 

Merges  in  eternity, — 
Ramsom'd  spirits,  heavenly  greeting, 
Joy  supernal,  at  the  meeting, — 

In  our  home  beyond  the  sea  ; 


WILLIAM  M.  SWAYNE.  22Q 

There  to  us  thyself  revealing, 

All  the  mystery  will  be/clear, 
Divinest  love  to  ours  appealing, 
Swallow  up  all  other  feeling, — 

"Perfect  love  cast  out  all  fear !" 

Then  with  childlike  faith  commending, 

As  directs  thy  loving  hand  ; 
Hope  with  proffer'd  mercy  blending, 
Works  of  charity  unending, 

Ways  redeeming,  thou  hast  plann'd. 

Oh,  the  joy,  the  bliss  of  BEING 

In  a  land  with  glory  bright ! 
Oh,  the  ecstasy  of  seeing, 
Peace  abiding,  discord  fleeing, 

Doubting  banish'd, — ALL  is  LIGHT! 


VAL  DELICIA. 

AUTUMNAL   DAYS. 

"  Val  Delicia" — Valley  of  Delight — is  the  name  given  by  the 
late  Richard  M.  Barnard  to  the  portion  of  the  ancestral  tract  which 
he  inherited,  and  whereon  he  built  his  residence.  By  a  later  sub 
division  another  home  arose,  and  from  "  Alta- Vista,"  where  the 
family  gathering  took  place,  the  beautiful  valley  of  Pocopson  can 
be  seen  in  its  attractiveness. 

Read  at  the  Barnard  family  gathering  September  II,  1889. 

AL  DELICIA  !     Val  Delicia  ! 

With  the  name  I  thee  endow;" 
And  the  form  of  him  who  gave  it 
Seems  to  stand  before  me  now ; 
While  his  kindly  words  of  greeting, 

Even  yet,  I  seem  to  hear, 
And  the  wisdom  of  his  counsel 
Yet  to  linger  on  my  ear. 

Val  Delicia, — pleasant  valley  ! 

Where  the  solidagos  bloom, 
And  the  lovely  purple  aster 

Sheds  a  subtile,  shy  perfume ; 


23O  WILLIAM   M.  SWAYNE. 

While  the  pleasant  autumn  seasons 

Cheer  the  heart — the  spirits  raise- 
When  we  meet  in  glad  reunion 
On  memorial  natal  days. 

From  the  brow  of  Alta-Vista, 

Where  the  tall  trees  proudly  wave, 
We  view  the  patrimonial  acres 

That  our  staid  forefathers  gave ; 
Where  cattle  in  the  fields  agraze, 

And  rustle  of  the  ripening  corn, 
Give  token  of  September  days 

With  fruitage  of  the  summer  born. 

Val  Delicia  !     Val  Delicta  ! 

Lying  warm  in  dreamy  haze, 
Radiant  in  thy  robes  of  autumn 

And  the  bland  October  days, 
While  the  cherished  charms  of  boyhood 

Deck'd  thy  fields  and  crown'd  the  grove, 
One  that  loved  thee  well  pass'd  upward 

To  a  fairer  home  above. 

Ah,  too  soon  for  us,  our  brother, 

Has  thy  gen'rous  heart  been  still'd  ;     • 
Too  soon  the  tireless  hands  were  folded, 

And  the  teeming  brain  was  chill'd  ! 
Where  the  firs  low  moan  are  making, 

And  the  song-bird's  lay  is  done, 
With  the  willow  bowed  and  weeping, 

Val  Delicia  mourns  her  son. 

Val  Delicia !     Val  Delicia ! 

We  who  linger  on  our  ways 
Yet  sweet  memories  fondly  cherish 

Of  some  bright  November  days. 
Still  the  ripples  of  Pocopson, 

Flowing  on,  will  chant  thy  praise; 
Still  the  cups  of  joy  and  sorrow 

Mingle  with  thy  autumn  days. 

But  we  seek  a  fairer  valley, 
Just  beyond  our  mortal  sight, 

And  a  happier  reunion, 

In  a  home  of  love  and  light ; 


EDWARD    SWAYNE.  23! 


Where  the  spirit,  here  sojourning 
In  its  frame  of  earthly  mould, 

Stays  the  measure  of  its  yearning, 
And  the  joys  of  heaven  unfold. 

From  the  night  of  dissolution, 

In  the  arms  of  angels  borne, 
Where,  on  plains  of  life  elysian, 

Dawns  our  resurrection  morn  ; 
And  the  brightness  of  the  glory 

All  the  boundless  realm  illumes, — 
There  "the  Lily  of  the  valley," 

And  "the  Rose  of  Sharon,"  blooms. 


EDWARD   SWAYNE. 

THE   OCTORARO. 

JHE  forest  trees  bend  o'er  thee,  stream  of  my 

song ! 
Where    light   mimic    billows    are    bounding 

along ; 

The  laurel  and  cedar  in  triumph  have  made 
A  sylvan  enchantment,  with  evergreen  shade. 

Their  murmurings  tremble  upon  their  green  leaves, 
When  ev'ry  bright  bubble  with  breathing  upheaves ; 
Flow,  fair  Octoraro,  flow  gently  along, — 
"  I  love  thee,  I  love  thee  !"  thou  stream  of  my  song. 

The  fairest  of  flowerets  bloom  by  thy  side, 
And  blush  at  their  images  down  in  thy  tide ; 
The  fair  water-lily  is  nursed  by  thy  wave, — 
Thou  rock'st  it  an  infant,  and  finds' t  it  a  grave. 

Yet  not  did  thy  bosom  entomb  it  in  vain ; 

It  riseth  and  bloometh  a  lily  again  ; 

The  wild  roses  greet  thee,  the  flags  are  unfurl'd, — 

Thy  vale,  Octoraro,  's  a  beautiful  world. 


232  EDWARD   SWAYNE. 

They  tell  me  of  streams  that  are  far  from  thy  shore, 
Where  Scotia's  wild  waters  in  cataracts  roar; 
They  tell  me  of  rivers  surpassingly  fair, — 
The   swift    "rushing   Dee"    and   the  "bonny  bright 
Ayr!" 

Yet  none  would  I  ask,  could  they  come  at  my  call, 

For  thou,  Octoraro,  art  dearer  than  all ; 

'Mid  fragrance  and  beauty  flow  gently  along, — 

"  I  love  thee,  I  love  thee !"  thou  stream  of  my  song. 

A  moss-covered  rock,  that  unconsciously  lends 
A  charm  to  thy  margin,  is  one  of  my  friends ; 
It  laughs  when  I  laugh,  in  my  joy  takes  a  part, 
And  echoes  the  language  you  lisp  to  my  heart. 

In  fairy-like  grandeur  by  this  is  my  seat, 
Where  oft  in  the  shadows  of  eve  I  retreat ; 
When  Phoebus,  beneath  thee,  his  brilliance  unfurls, 
And  sports  in  thy  eddies,  like  thousands  of  pearls. 

When  o'er  thee  the  blackbirds  their  wild  revels  keep, 
The  turtle-dove  moans  to  a  lover  asleep ; 
The  ring-plover's  melody  floats  in  the  breeze ; 
The  red-breasted  warbler  enchants  from  the  trees. 

The  lark  gayly  sings  in  his  circles  above, 
The  musical  thrush  in  thy  curtained  alcove ; 
When  ev'ry  sweet  songster's  attuned  from  on  high, 
Then  heaven's  glad  minstrelsy  swells  to  the  sky. 

Endear'd  Octoraro,  if  ever  I  stray, 
With  sirens  of  fortune,  from  thee  far  away, 
On  sleep's  dreamy  pinions  I'll  visit  thy  shore, 
And  fancy  I  hear  in  the  breezes  thy  roar. 

Then  murmur  thee  onward,  far  onward  from  me, 
And  bear  the  proud  ship  on  the  waves  of  the  sea; 
'Mid  fragrance  and  beauty  move  gently  along, — 
"  I  love  thee,  I  love  thee !"  thou  stream  of  my  song. 


THE   THROPP   SISTERS.  233 


THE  THROPP   SISTERS. 


MARY  ELOISA,  Amelia,  and  Catharine  Rose  Thropp,  daughters 
of  Isaiah  and  Anna  Virginia  (Workizer)  Thropp,  and  great-grand 
daughters  of  Christian  Workizer,  an  accomplished  German  gentle 
man  and  officer  in  the  English  army  under  General  Wolfe  at  the 
storming  of  Quebec,  are  natives  of  the  village  of  Valley  Forge. 


MARY   ELOISA  THROPP   (CONE). 

MARY  ELOISA,  the  eldest  daughter,  began  to  write  poetry  while 
a  pupil  at  school  in  Philadelphia,  where  she  received  the  tuition 
of  Rev.  Mr.  G.  Mainwaring  and  other  distinguished  teachers. 
She  commenced  her  literary  career  as  zprottgl  of  the  Hon.  Joseph 
R.  Chandler,  editor  of  the  United  States  Gazette,  who  was  the 
first  to  publish  her  name  in  connection  with  her  writings.  Her 
early  poems  were  published  in  the  New  York  Knickerbocker, 
Graham's  Magazine,  Godey's  Lady's  Book,  and  other  literary 
journals. 

In  1860  Miss  Thropp  opened  a  select  school  for  young  ladies  at 
No.  1920  Spruce  Street,  Philadelphia,  which  she  subsequently  re 
moved  to  the  northeast  corner  of  Nineteenth  and  Chestnut  Streets, 
where  many  of  the  young  ladies  of  the  first  families  of  the  country 
were  educated.  In  April,  1865,  Miss  Thropp,  in  connection  with 
two  other  ladies  of  Philadelphia,  was  appointed  by  the  United 
States  Sanitary  Commission  to  transport  and  distribute  surplus 
hospital  stores  among  the  sick  and  wounded  soldiers  in  Richmond. 
The  ladies  reached  Richmond  via  the  Potomac,  Chesapeake  Bay, 
and  James  River,  being  the  first  ladies  from  the  North  to  reach  Rich 
mond  after  the  fall  of  the  defunct  Confederacy.  They  were  em 
inently  successful  in  their  mission,  and  after  their  return  Miss 
Thropp  published  a  graphic  account  of  their  journey  in  the  Phila 
delphia  Inquirer. 

On  the  1st  of  October,  1868,  Miss  Thropp  was  married  to  Hon. 
Andrew  Cone,  at  that  time  proprietor  and  publisher  of  the  Oil 
City  Times.  In  April,  1873,  Mr.  Cone  was  appointed  by  Gov 
ernor  Hartranft  a  State  Commissioner  to  the  Vienna  World's  Ex 
position,  and,  accompanied  by  his  wife,  went  to  Vienna  soon 
afterwards.  After  discharging  his  official  duties  at  the  Exposition, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cone  travelled  through  Austria,  Germany,  Italy, 
Switzerland,  France,  and  Great  Britian,  Mrs.  Cone  writing  letters 
meanwhile  as  the  correspondent  of  l\\e  Philadelphia  Inquirer  and 
the  Oil  City  Derrick.  In  1876,  Mr.  Cone  was  appointed  United 
States  consul  at  Para,  Brazil,  by  President  Grant.  After  serving 
three  years  at  Para,  Mr.  Cone  was  made  consul  at  Pernambuco  by 
President  Hayes,  where  he  served  two  years,  and  until  his  health, 
which  had  long  been  delicate,  became  so  bad  that  he  returned 


234  THE   THROPP   SISTERS. 


home  on  leave  of  absence.     He  died,  leaving  his  widow  incon 
solable  for  his  loss,  November  7,  1880. 

Early  in  1887,  Mrs.  Cone  was  induced  by  some  of  the  leading 
citizens  of  Chester  County,  among  whom  were  the  late  Judge  J. 
S.  Futhey,  Hon.  James  B.  Everhart,  and  Henry  Armitt  Brown, 
to  interest  herself  in  behalf  of  the  erection  of  a  monument  in 
memory  of  the  Revolutionary  heroes  whose  remains  lie  neglected 
at  Valley  Forge,  and  for  two  years,  assisted  by  her  sister,  Miss 
Amelia  Thropp,  she  labored  incessantly  in  furtherance  of  the  project, 
by  holding  meetings  and  calling  attention  to  it  through  the  medium 
of  the  press. 


AMELIA  THROPP. 

AMELIA  THROPP  was  educated  in  Philadelphia.  Like  her 
sisters,  she  began  to  write  in  childhood  while  at  school,  but  did 
not  publish  much  until  about  ten  years  ago,  since  which  she  has 
published  extensively  in  the  Philadelphia,  Boston,  New  York,  and 
Southern  periodicals.  Though  possessed  of  much  poetic  ability, 
she  has  chosen  to  cultivate  her  gifts  as  a  writer  of  prose,  in  which 
she  excels.  She  visited  her  sister,  Mrs.  Cone,  while  the  latter 
resided  fit  the  consulate  at  Pernambuco,  and  while  there  wrote  a 
series  of  articles  entitled  the  "  Brazil  Papers,"  which  were  pub 
lished  in  a  Philadelphia  journal,  and  were  extensively  copied 
throughout  the  country. 


CATHARINE   ROSE   THROPP  (PORTER). 

CATHARINE  ROSE  THROPP  received  her  entire  education  at  her 
sister's  seminary  in  Philadelphia.  Her  first  poem  was  written 
when  she  was  only  ten  years  of  age.  At  the  age  of  fourteen  she 
published  her  first  prose  sketch,  entitled  "  Winfred  Wayne,"  in 
the  Knickerbocker  Magazine.  She  still  continues  to  write  both 
poetry  and  prose,  though  she  greatly  excels  in  the  former,  and  has 
published  in  the  Cleveland  Leader,  Union  Signal,  Norristown 
Herald,  and  the  Oil  City  and  Philadelphia  journals. 

When  quite  young  she  married  Mr.  George  Porter,  of  Oil  City, 
and  is  the  mother  of  two  charming  little  girls,  who  seem  to 
have  inherited  much  of  her  literary  talents.  Her  beautiful  oallad, 
entitled  "  Christian  Workizer's  Steed,"  was  written  expressly  for 
this  book. 

The  Thropp  sisters  are  esteemed  wherever  they  are  known,  not 
only  on  account  of  their  brilliant  poetical  genius,  but,  for  their 
high  Christian  character  and  the  sweet  unselfishness  of  their  dis 
positions.  Refined,  cultivated,  and  accomplished,  they  are  en 
dowed  with  that  admirable  poise  of  mind  which  enables  them  to  act 
with  discretion  and  self-possession  on  all  occasions.  Being  singu 
larly  modest  and  unassuming,  much  of  the  good  they  have  done 
will  forever  remain  shrouded  in  oblivion. 


MARY  E.  THROPP   (CONE).  235 

MARY   E.   THROPP    (CONE). 
THE  WILD   FLOWERS   OF    VALLEY    FORGE. 


LEST  be  the  flowers  that  freely  blow 

In  this  neglected  spot, — 
Anemone,  with  leaves  of  snow, 

And  blue  forget-me-not. 
God's  laurels  weave  their  classic  wreath, 

Their  pale  pink  blossoms  wave 
O'er  lowly  mounds,  where  rest  beneath 

Our  martyrs  in  their  grave. 

In  white  and  gold  the  daisies  shine 

All  o'er  Encampment  Hill '; 
There  wild  rose  and  the  columbine 

Lift  glistening  banners  still. 
Here  plumy  ferns  and  emerald  fringe 

Adorn  our  stream's  bright  way; 
And  soft  grass  whence  the  violet  springs, 

With  fragrant  flowers  of  May. 

Oh,  there's  a  spell  around  these  blooms 

Owned  by  no  rarer  flowers  ; 
They  blossomed  on  our  soldiers'  tombs, 

And  they  shall  bloom  on  ours. 
To  us,  as  to  our  sires,  their  tone 

Breathes  forth  the  same  glad  strain, — 
"We  spring  to  life  when  winter's  gone, 

And  ye  shall  rise  again." 

Uncultured  round  our  path  they  grow, 

And  smile  before  our  tread, 
To  cheer  us  as  long  time  ago 

They  cheered  our  noble  dead. 
Arbutus  in  the  sheltering  wood 

Sighs,  "  Here  he  came  to  pray." 
And  Pansies  whisper,  "Thus  we  stood 

When  heroes  passed  away." 


236  MARY    E.  THROPP   (CONE). 

Thus  every  wild-flower's  simple  leaf 

Breathes  in  ray  native  vale, 
To  conscious  hearts,  some  record  brief, 

Some  true  and  touching  tale. 
Wealth's  gay  parterre  in  glory  stands  : 

I  own  their  foreign  claims, 
Those  gorgeous  flowers  from  other  lands, 

Rare  plants  with  wondrous  names. 

Ye  blossomed  in  our  martyr's  field 

Beneath  the  warm  spring's  sun, 
Sprung  from  the  turf  where  lowly  kneeled 

Our  matchless  Washington. 
Ye  in  our  childhood's  garden  grew, 

Our  sainted  mother's  bowers: 
My  grateful  heart  beats  high  for  you, 

My  own  wild  valley  flowers  ! 


VALLEY  FORGE  CENTENNIAL  POEM. 

\Vritten  at  the  United  States  Consulate,  Para,  Brazil,  and  read 
at  the  Valley  Forge  Centennial  celebration,  June  19,  1878. 

ITHIN  my  window,  opening  to  the  sea, 

I  stand  afar  and  muse  alone, 
Not  on  Brazilian  scene  of  wave  and  shore, 

But  on  the  valley  of  my  home. 
Above,  in  graceful  rainbow  curves, 

The  banner  freedom  won, 
Of  lily,  rose,  and  starry  blue, 
Floats  in  the  morning  sun. 

Before  me  spreads  the  flashing  sea, 

Cradling  the  white-winged  ships  to  rest, 
Circling  fair  Amazonian  isles, 

In  their  rich  tropic  beauty  drest : 
The  beauty  of  the  changeless  years, 

Where  winters  never  come, 
Touched  by  their  artist's  matchless  hand, 

The  equatorial  sun. 


MARY   E.  THROPP   (CONE). 


Oh  !  gazing  from  this  arch  of  palms, 

O'er  silver  reach  of  shining  bay, 
My  senses  wrapt  in  beauty's  dream, 

My  truant  thoughts  are  far  away,  — 
Not  on  the  glory  of  this  summer  land, 

Not  on  this  sky  of  sapphire  blue,  — 
Ah,  no  !  my  longing  heart,  dear  friends, 

Is  all  at  home  with  you. 

Brazilia's  wilds,  with  flowers  aflame, 

Brazilia's  wastes  sublime, 
Her  broad  savannas  and  her  boundless  floods, 

In  all  their  flush  of  prime,  — 
Superb  the  setting,  but  the  gem 

Is  dross,  compared  with  thee, 
In  virtue  firm,  in  wisdom  great, 

Thou  land  of  liberty  ! 

Far  up  'mid  Pennsylvania's  hills 

.  Ye  gather  now,  brave  Boys  in  Blue, 

Who  guarded  with  your  lives  the  land 

Our  fathers  left  to  me  and  you. 
Hast'ning  with  honor,  laurels,  love, 

Ye  come  from  farm  and  busy  mart,  — 
I  come  not,  but,  half  trembling,  send 

The  tribute  of  my  grateful  heart. 

Oh,  loyal  men,  who  conquering  came, 

Late  from  the  lurid  fields  of  war, 
Bringing  the  Ark  of  Union  home 

On  your  victorious  car, 
'Tis  meet  that  you,  brave  kindred  souls, 

Should  seek  each  patriot  mound, 
With  reverent  feet,  and  grateful  heart, 

Our  country's  holy  ground  ! 

Men  o'er  the  ocean  fought  for  kings, 

But  ye,  brave  sire  and  son, 
To  make  these  States  "the  promised  land" 

For  all  beneath  the  sun,  — 
Ye  rushed  to  battle,  eager,  brave, 

And  fought  —  the  nation's  pride  — 
True  sons  of  martyred  sires,  who  erst 

Endured,  and  starved  and  died. 


238  MARY    E.  THROPP    (CONE). 

Sublime  in  suffering,  waiting  was  to  do, 

Oh,  holy  men  of  long  ago  ! 
Starving  in  cold  and  frozen  camp, 

Praying  on  blood-stained  snow ; 
Till  weary  with  the  hope  deferred, 

Some  waited  not  the  coming  day, 
But  overtaxed,  by  suffering  spent, 

The  silver  cord  gave  way. 

They  prayed  and  fought,  endured  and  died, 

For  all  the  race  of  time ; 
And  ye,  their  peers,  through  paths  of  death 

Bore  Union  Ark  to  freedom's  shrine. 
Oh,  could  their  raptured  souls  return, 

How  would  they  bless  their  sons ! 
Mingling  with  triumph,  songs  of  praise 

And  solemn  orisons. 

Rejoice  !  the  veil  of  centuries  is  rent ; 

A  hundred  years  sublime 
Lie  like  the  waves,  ere  winds  arise, 

Along  the  shores  of  time. 
Blest  vale,  so  fair  that  Paradise, 

Revived  for  man  again  in  thee, 
Blest  sunny  slopes  and  favoring  skies, 

That  cradled  first  young  Liberty  ! 

Oh,  could  thy  child's  enraptured  story 

Tell  the  great  deeds  erst  done  in  thee, 
Her  verse  proclaim  but  half  thy  glory, 

Till  every  human  eye  might  see, 
How  would  mankind  adore  thy  hills, 

Bless  every  mound  thou  bearest, 
And  kiss,  with  reverent  lore,  the  hem 

Of  blood-bought  robe  thou  wearest ! 

Renowned  thy  chieftain's  soul  of  truth, 

Thy  Prussian's  martial  lore, 
Thy  Marquis, — ALL  the  lion  hearts 

Who  led  in  freedom's  war. 
Our  grateful  hearts  beat  high  to  them, 

But  oh,  they  yearn  to-day 
O'er  those  whose  strong,  heroic  souls 

In  silence  passed  away. 


MARY    E.  THROPP    (CONE).  239 


How  oft  in  hero-worship  there 

I've  knelt  and  kissed  the  sod, 
O'er  men  who  through  that  ordeal  grew 

Great  as  the  sons  of  God  ! 
Oh,  feet  that  pressed  these  green-redoubts, 

Worn  feet,  this  camping-ground, 
Your  work  among  these  holy  hills 

Is  felt  the  wide  earth  round ! 

For  this  successive  races  fought, 

Swiss,  Greek,  and  Roman  bled  ; 
Ye  wrought  at  Freedom's  forge  the  steel 

To  strike  oppression  dead  ! 
One  power  is  reaping  her  reward, 

Sole  nation,  in  advance, 
To  welcome  heaven-born  freedom  in, 

The  friendly  land  of  France. 

In  war-tried  Europe  nations  fall, 

But  thou,  oh,  fair  and  young ! 
Now  that  the  clouds  of  slavery  flee, 

That  o'er  thy  morning  hung, 
Thy  sun  must  rise,  while  theirs  declines, 

Shedding  o'er  all  "  Hope's"  ray  serene; 
Dispelling  heart-ache,  want,  and  woe, 

Where'er  its  peaceful  glories  beam. 

The  Union  safe,  thy  loyal  sons 

Press  proudly  'round  thee  now, 
Who  lifted  slavery's  rnalison 

From  Freedom's  suffering  brow. 
She  mourns  her  unreturning  brave, 

Lost  in  our  country's  night  of  woe, 
While  yet  the  tide  of  civil  war 

O'er  breaking  hearts  surged  to  and  fro; 

And,  Christ-like,  on  the  mountain  yearns 

To  gather  young  and  old, 
In  pitying  love,  till  her  white  wings 

Shall  ail  mankind  enfold. 
Land  of  my  love !     God  guard  thee  well, 

Thou  hope  of  every  clime  ! 
And  guide  thee,  blessing  man  and  blest, 

Thou  fairest-born  of  time ! 


24O  MARY    E.  THROPP    (CONE). 

Oh,  keep  our  fair  Columbia  pure, 

Brave  brothers,  tried  and  true  ; 
Guard  well  her  honor,  and  the  right, — 

Our  hopes  are  all  with  you  ! 
Then  round  her  brow  for  evermore 

Shall  stars  of  freedom  shine 
That  know  no  zenith  of  increase, 

No  nadir  of  decline. 

Now  blest  with  Union,  Freedom,  Peace, 

Give  all  the  praise  to  God, 
And  consecrate  anew,  this  day, 

Our  land,  our  lives  to  God. 
Then  shall  His  benison  descend 

On  harvest  and  on  store, 
And,  ocean-like,  o'er  all  the  land 

Flow  ever,  evermore  ! 

Hark  !  'tis  the  martial  tread  of  hosts, 

The  faint,  far  roll  of  drum, 
The  refrain  of  the  mighty  dead, 

Across  the  ages  come  ! 
Unseen,  but,  "ministering  spirits"  still, 

The  deathless  heroes  pass, 
In  long,  august  procession, 

Through  memory's  magic  glass. 

Grand  armies  !  glorious  then  and  now, 

That,  left  to  face  the  foe, 
This,  victor  comes,  united,  free, 

To  honor  those  of  long  ago. 
March,  brothers,  march  at  set  of  sun, 

Your  graceful  homage  given, 
And  let  your  paeans,  as  you  go, 

Roll  o'er  the  hills  to  heaven. 


AMELIA   THROPP.  24! 


AMELIA   THROPP. 

HEAVENWARD. 

N  the  meadows  by  the  woodland, 
Rosy,  dimpled  feet,  and  bare, 
Wandering  in  the  dawn  of  childhood, 
Free  from  blight  of  cank'ring  care. 

Light,  I  caught  the  passing  sunbeams, 
Through  my  waxen  fingers  fair, 

Toss'd  them  back  upon  the  meadows, — 
Threw  them  on  the  scented  air. 

By  my  side  and  ever  watchful, 
Lest  my  infant  feet  should  stray 

To  some  dark  and  miry  pitfall, 
A  loving  mother  led  my  way. 

Angel-like  she  prayed  and  guided, 
Checking  oft  my  wilful  ways, 

Till  the  hours  of  childhood  glided, 
Like  a  magic  scroll,  away. 

With  advice  so  fondly  heeded, 
Quick  the  happy  moments  flew, 

Like  the  shower  of  golden  sunshine, 
That  my  frail  bark  floated  through. 

Life's  short  dreams  forever  over, 
And  her  works  pronounced  well  done, 

O'er  the  crystal  sea  they've  borne  her, 
To  the  land  beyond  the  sun. 

Lo !  the  gates  of  gold  gleam  yonder 
In  the  light  beyond  the  blue, 

And  bewild'ring  is  the  splendor 
Of  the  glory  shining  through. 

When  I  come  to  lay  my  burden 

By  the  golden  gates  ajar, 
Weary,  footsore,  sad,  and  laden, 

Having  journeyed  from  afar, 
q  21 


242  CATHARINE    R.  THROPP  (PORTER). 

May  I  then,  Lord,  Thou  permitting, 
Lay  life's  cruel  crosses  down, 

And,  through  merit  of  my  Saviour, 
Wear  the  everlasting  crown. 


CATHARINE   R.  THROPP   (PORTER). 

These  poems  are  dedicated  to  the  memory  of  my  mother,  Mrs. 
Anna  V.  Thropp,  of  Valley  Forge. 

BRIGHT  vision  of  my  earliest  years, 

Oh,  sainted  mother,  fair  and  sweet, 
With  aching  heart,  through  blinding  tears, 

I  lay  this  chaplet  at  thy  feet. 

The  perfect  life  that  set  so  soon, 

When  all  its  fruits  were  ripening  fair, 

That  faded  e'er  the  afternoon 
Had  flung  a  shadow  on  the  air. 


THE   DYING   DRUMMER-BOY. 

A   TRUE   INCIDENT   OF  THE   LATE  WAR. 

DRUMMER-BOY  in  the  long  ward, 
A  lad,  who  scarce  twelve  years  had  told, 

Lay  waiting  for  the  messenger 
That  comes  alike  to  young  and  old. 

The  hero  soul  in  that  slight  form, 
Throbbing  behind  its  prison  bars, 

Brought  the  young  eaglet  from  its  nest 
To  die  beneath  the  stripes  and  stars. 

Beneath  a  forehead  crowned  with  curls, 
Some  mother's  pride  in  happier  days, 

From  starry  depths  the  deep  blue  eyes 
Shone  with  a  wistful  far-off  gaze. 

A  lady  sat  beside  his  couch, 

One  of  those  angels  Christ  sent  forth, 
With  loving  heart  and  purpose  high, 

To  nurse  the  wounded  of  the  North. 


CATHARINE   R.  THROPP  (PORTER).  243 

She  read  from  out  the  Book  of  Life 
That  lovely  psalm,  the  twenty-third ; 

The  low,  sweet  music  of  her  voice 

Through  all  the  mists  of  death  was  heard. 

"  Please  read  that  psalm  again,"  he  said  ; 

"  I  learned  it  at  my  mother's  knee 
In  the  dear  home  so  far  away : 

'  I  shall  not  want,  they  comfort  me.'  ' 

Slowly  she  read  the  message  o'er  ; 

The  dull  ears  drank  their  music  in ; 
Then  asked  if  she  should  place  the  book 

So  he  could  read  the  words  within. 

"  I  cannot  read  at  all,"  he  said ; 

"  It  grows  so  dark  I  cannot  see ; 
Would  you  mind  placing  on  the  lines 

My  fingers,  for  they  comfort  me?" 

She  placed  his  hand  upon  the  page  ; 

A  smile  shone  o'er  the  pallid  face; 
The  radiance  of  the  Southern  sun 

With  splendor  lit  the  dreary  place. 

The  breath  of  roses  filled  the  breeze 

That  floated  through  that  home  of  pain  j 

Across  long,  level  wastes  of  sand 
Came  the  low  sobbing  of  the  main. 

"  I'm  weary  now,  I  want  to  sleep ; 

But  when  you  write  again,"  he  said, 
"  Tell,  mother  we  will  meet  in  heaven, 

And  not  to  mourn  when  I  am  dead. 

"  The  night  is  coming  all  too  soon  ; 

Please  place  the  book  upon  my  breast, 
With  those  home  words  close  to  my  heart ; 

They'll  cheer  me  as  I  go  to  rest." 

The  little  soldier  closed  his  eyes  ; 

She  left  him  in  the  angels'  care, 
But  when  again  she  sought  his  cot 

She  found  a  statue,  cold  and  fair. 


244  CATHARINE    R.  THROPP  (PORTER). 


Clasped  closely  in  his  little  hands, 
The  well-worn  Bible  mother  gave 

To  guide  the  poor  boy's  wandering  feet 
Through  the  dark  valley  of  the  grave. 

And  all  the  air  was  filled  with  peace ; 

No  ripple  where  that  bark  went  down ; 
Only  upon  the  cold,  still  brow 

Lay  the  bright  shadow  of  a  crown. 


CHRISTIAN  WORKIZER'S  STEED. 

Colonel  Christian  Workizer,  great-grandfather  of  the  Thropp 
sisters,  fought  under  General  Wolfe  as  aide-de-camp  on  the  Plains 
of  Abraham.  On  the  death  of  his  commander  he  retired  from 
the  English  army,  married,  and  located  in  Chester  County,  where 
the  following  incident  occurred. 

N  the  radiant  light  of  the  autumn  morn, 
Through  fruitful  orchards  and  fields  of  corn, 
From  the  riverside  to  the  highway  brown, 
The  English  army  came  marching  down. 

Through  Chester  vale  to  the  city  of  Penn, 
Marched  thousands  of  bronzed,  red-coated  men  : 
Like  a  horde  of  locusts  they  onward  stray, 
Bearing  the  spoils  of  the  year  away. 

Close  to  the  edge  of  a  straggling  wood 
The  dwelling  of  Christian  Workizer  stood  ; 
They  plundered  his  dairy,  his  farm-yard,  all, 
The  cattle  were  driven  from  manger  and  stall. 

And  Bessie,  a  maiden  of  scarce  ten  years, 
Ran  out  with  her  blue  eyes  filled  with  tears ; 
And  sobs  from  the  childish  heart  broke  through 
When  "  Black  Prince,"  the  war-horse,  was  taken  too. 

To  Pickering's  mill  her  father  had  gone 
With  a  load  of  wheat  in  the  early  dawn ; 
With  anger  the  colonel's  broad  bosom  stirred 
When  at  eve  the  pitiful  story  he  heard. 


CATHARINE   R.  THROPP  (PORTER).  24$ 

For,  next  to  his  children,  next  to  his  wife, 
He  loved  the  good  steed  that  once  saved  his  life  : 
Bess  told  her  tale  as  he  rocked  her  to  rest, 
And  sobbed  out  her  woes  on  his  manly  breast.  ' 

To  the  British  commander  a  message  with  speed 
Was  sent  by  the  colonel,  demanding  his  steed. 
The  general  was  drinking ;  he  read  the  broad  page ; 
"The  insolent  rebel  !"  he  cried,  in  his  rage  : 

"  For  the  one  he  demands  I'll  send  back  a  score. 
Mount,  troopers,  and  ride  to  his  threshold  once  more, 
And  there  you  can  forage  and  burn  as  you  will, — 
Perhaps  through  disasters  he'll  learn  to  keep  still." 

At  the  call  of  the  bugle  they  started  abreast, 
From  the  turbulent  camp,  to  the  home  in  the  west ; 
The  church-bells  were  ringing  from  steeple  and  spire, 
As  they  thundered  along  on  their  errand  of  fire. 

Rapine  and  murder,  and  fierce  lust  were  there, 
As  the  lion  enraged  springs  forth  from  his  lair; 
Into  the  door-yard,  with  clatter  and  clash, 
With  sabres  unsheathed,  the  bold  troopers  dash. 

In  the  door  stands  the  colonel,  alone,  undismayed, 
With  the  scabbard  drawn  off  from  his  keen,  trusty 

blade  : 

As  the  rock  proudly  flings  back  the  billows'  wild  flow, 
He  stood  there  undaunted,  awaiting  the  foe. 

"Who's  this?"  cried  the  captain,  with  swift,  sharp 

rebound. 
"Why,  colonel,  old   comrade!"    he  springs   to   the 

ground. 

"  Why,  comrade,  you  know  we  fought  side  by  side 
On  the  plains  of  Abrah'm,  where  gallant  Wolfe  died." 

They  clasped  each  other  in  a  fond  embrace, 
With  tears  and  smiles  on  each  bearded  face ; 
While  memories  bitter  and  sweet  thronged  fast 
On  the  surging  waves  of  the  glorious  past : 

Two  of  the  heroes  who  scaled  the  height 
That  guards  Quebec,  at  the  dead  of  night, 

21* 


246  CATHARINE    R.  THROPP  (PORTER). 

When  the  sentinel  stars  shone  softly  down 

On  the  spires  and  roofs  of  the  quaint  old  town. 

A  table  was  spread  for  the  soldiers  with  care, 
With  costly  viands  and  vintage  rare ; 
Old  stories  were  told,  old  ballads  were  sung 
Of  the  joyous  days  when  their  lives  were  young. 

They  lingered  together  till  twilight  flowed 

O'er  the  dusky  line  of  the  winding  road  ; 

Then  the  soldiers  rode  through  the  moon's  pale  rays 

To  the  distant  city  and  camp-fire's  blaze. 

Next  morn,  while  the  shadows  still  lay  asleep, 
On  grassy  upland  and  woodland  deep, 
As  the  sun  was  rising  o'er  river  and  dale, 
From  the  Quaker  City  beyond  the  vale, 

A  messenger  came  o'er  the  mountain  brow 
To  Colonel  Workizer  from  General  Howe. 
The  letter  he  bore  spoke  in  words  most  fair 
Of  a  warrior's  respect  for  the  warrior  there. 

Expressing  regret,  and  with  courtesy  fine 
For  the  loss  he  had  suffered,  he  sent,  as  a  sign, 
A  chain  of  rich  gold  all  studded  with  pearl, 
To  bind  the  bright  locks  of  his  fair  little  girl. 

But  more  precious  than  gems  in  his  master's  sight, 
By  the  messenger's  side  in  the  morning  light, 
Under  the  apple-trees,  down  the  lane, 
Black  Prince  came  trotting  with  flowing  mane. 

Saddled  and  bridled,  he  arched  his  neck 
And  whinnied  with  glee  at  the  colonel's  beck  ; 
'Gairfst  his  shoulder  he  rubbed  his  glossy  head, 
And  pawed  the  ground  with  his  airy  tread. 

Master  and  charger  have  mouldered  away 
To  dust,  in  the  grave  of  a  by-gone  day, 
And  the  old  home  stands  in  the  valley  green, 
Watching  unchanged  o'er  the  peaceful  scene. 

The  winds  breathe  their  requiem,  soft  and  low, 

O'er  the  nameless  mounds  where  the  wild  flowers  blow. 


BAYARD  AND  EMMA  TAYLOR. 


Brave  martyrs  who  perished  at  Liberty's  shrine, 
Like  stars  in  the  zenith,  immortal  shall  shine. 

Their  names  on  our  country's  bright  record  of  fame, 
Who  died  for  the  heritage  grand  that  we  claim  ; 
On  Valley  Forge  hills  in  that  far-off  morn, 
In  throes  of  anguish,  our  nation  was  born. 


BAYARD   AND   EMMA   TAYLOR. 


BAYARD  TAYLOR,  son  of  Joseph  and  Rebecca  (Way)  Taylor, 
was  born  in  Kennet  Square,  at  the  corner  of  State  and  South 
Union  Streets,  January  II,  1825.  He  was  named  for  James  A. 
Bayard,  United  States  Senator  from  Delaware,  and  in  early  life 
sometimes  wrote  his  name  J.  Bayard  Taylor,  but  ceased  to  use 
the  J.  when  he  reached  maturity.  He  received  his  early  educa 
tion  at  a  private  school  taught  by  Ruth  Ann  Chambers,  a  short 
distance  north  of  Kennet  Square,  and  not  far  from  Cedat croft, 
where  the  family  then  resided.  His  teacher  was  a  writer  of  verses, 
some  of  which  he  copied  with  great  delight  in  his  early  child 
hood.  This,  no  doubt,  had  much  to  do  with  calling  into  life  the 
germs  of  poetic  genius  and  imagination  which  in  after-life  made 
him  famous  as  a  poet.  Subsequently  he  went  to  Samuel  Martin's 
school,  in  a  little  stone  house  on  the  road  leading  from  Kennet 
Square  to  Toughkennemon,  and  to  the  boarding-school  in  Union- 
ville,  in  which,  while  he  was  a  student,  he  also  acted  as  assistant 
teacher.  His  life  until  he  was  eighteen  years  of  age  was  mostly 
passed  upon  his  father's  farm,  except  when  he  was  at  school ;  but 
he  showed  no  aptitude  for  farming,  which  was  distasteful  to  him, 
and  in  1842  he  was  apprenticed  to  Henry  E.  Evans,  proprietor 
and  publisher  of  the  Village  Record,  to  learn  the  printing  busi 
ness.  But  his  restless  spirit  could  not  brook  the  restraint  of  a 
printing-office,  and,  after  working  at  the  business  a  year  or  so, 
he  purchased  the  remainder  of  his  time  from  Mr.  Evans ;  and 
having  formed  a  connection  with  the  New  York  Tribune,  travelled 
over  Europe  and  published  a  series  of  letters  as  the  correspondent 
of  that  journal.  These  letters  were  so  interesting  and  popular 
that  in  1846  he  published  them,  under  the  title  of  "  Views  Afoot; 
or,  Europe  seen  with  Knapsack  and  Staff."  After  his  return 
from  Europe,  Mr.  Taylor,  in  connection  with  E.  E.  Foster,  pub 
lished  the  Phoznixville  Pioneer,  which  he  desired  to  make  a  lit 
erary  journal  of  a  high  order ;  but  not  receiving  the  encourage 
ment  he  thought  the  enterprise  deserved,  he  severed  his  connection 
with  the  Pioneer,  and  connected  himself  with  the  New  York  Tri 
bune,  of  which  he  became  one  of  the  co-proprietors  and  editors  in 
1849.  Soon  after  the  discovery  of  gold  in  California  he  visited 


248  EMMA  TAYLOR   (LAMBORN). 


that  State  in  the  capacity  of  editorial  correspondent,  and  returned  by 
way  of  Mexico.  After  his  return  he  published  his  second  volume  of 
travels,  entitled  "  Eldorado."  Subsequently,  in  1851,  he  travelled 
over  much  of  Europe,  Asia,  and  Africa,  and  after  traversing  more 
than  fifty  thousand  miles,  returned  home  in  1853.  He  also  visited 
the  East  Indies  and  spent  two  years  there,  returning  home  in  1858. 
His  books  of  travel,  of  which  there  are  eight  volumes,  are  well 
written  and  very  popular. 

On  the  24th  of  October,  1850,  he  married  Mary  Agnew,  his 
early  school-mate,  to  whom  he  had  long  been  engaged.  She  was 
then  upon  her  death-bed,  and  died  in  the  following  December. 
Many  years  after  the  death  of  his  first  wife  Mr.  Taylor  married 
Marie  Hansen,  daughter  of  Professor  Hansen,  a  distinguished 
German  astronomer,  who,  with  their  daughter  Lillian,  is  now 
residing  in  Germany. 

In  1862,  Mr.  Taylor  was  appointed  Secretary  of  the  American 
Legation  at  the  Court  of  St.  Petersburg,  and  in  1863  performed 
the  duties  of  charge  d'affaires  at  that  city.  In  1878  he  was  ap 
pointed  United  States  Minister  to  Germany,  and  died  while  acting 
in  that  capacity  at  Berlin,  December  19,  1878.  His  remains 
reached  New  York,  March  13,  1879,  and  two  days  later  were  in 
terred  at  Longwood,  near  Kennet  Square. 

Mr.  Taylor  was  the  author  of  three  novels,  "  Hannah  Thurs- 
ton,"  "John  Godfrey's  Fortune,"  and  "A  Story  of  Kennet," 
which  are  well  written  and  quite  popular.  Mr.  Taylor  wrote 
poetry  at  an  early  age.  His  first  poem  that  was  published  ap 
peared  in  The  Saturday  Evening  Post  in  1841.  It  was  called 
"  Soliloquy  of  a  Young  Poet."  Mr.  Taylor  was  the  author  of 
many  beautiful  poems,  and  it  has  been  well  said  of  him  by  his 
friend,  the  poet  George  H.  Boker,  that  "  poetry  was  the  literary 
element  in  which  he  lived  and  moved  and  had  his  being;  to 
which  all  other  ambitions  were  subjected,  as  vassals  to  a  sovereign ; 
and  to  success  in  which  he  gave  more  thoughtful  labor,  and  held 
its  fruits  in  higher  esteem,  than  all  the  world  and  all  the  other 
glories  thereof."  While  his  dramatic  poems  and  his  translation 
of  Goethe's  Faust  give  evidence  of  the  highest  order  of  poetical 
ability,  he  is  better  known  as  the  poet  of  the  people,  who,  to  use 
the  language  of  a  brother  poet,  the  late  James  B.  Everhart,  he 
"  leads  through  the  ivory  gate  of  dreams  into  the  ideal  land,  into 
the  world  of  airy  forms,  through  galleries  of  graces  and  vistas  of 
delight,  amid  vivid  pictures  and  obvious  passions,  instructive 
fancies  and  attractive  shows,  all  harmonious  as  reality." 


EMMA  TAYLOR   (LAMBORN). 

MRS.  EMMA  TAYLOR  LAMBORN  is  the  youngest  daughter  of 
Joseph  Taylor  and  Rebecca  (Way)  Taylor,  and  sister  of  the  late 
Bayard  Taylor. 

She  was  born  in  East  Maryborough  Township,  Chester  County. 
Her  early  years  were  passed  with  her  parents  and  in  attending 
schools  in  Kennet  Square,  and  in  1856  she  went  to  Europe  with 


BAYARD   TAYLOR.  249 

her  brother  and  spent  a  year  in  study  in  Germany  and  Switzer 
land. 

At  the  close  of  the  war,  in  1865,  she  was  married  to  Colonel 
Charles  B.  Lamborn,  an  officer  of  a  volunteer  regiment  from 
Pennsylvania,  and  in  the  following  year  she  went  with  her  hus 
band  to  St.  Louis,  Mo.  Colonel  Lamborn  was  at  that  time  secre 
tary  of  the  Kansas  Pacific  Railway  Co.,  and  he  was  afterwards 
connected  with  other  railroad  companies  in  Colorado  and  the 
Northwest.  His  family  resided  for  eight  years  in  Missouri,  and 
then  in  Colorado  Springs,  a  charming  town  at  the  base  of  the 
Rocky  Mountains  in  Colorado.  In  1882  he  became  Land  Com 
missioner  of  the  Northern  Pacific  Railroad  Company,  and  Mrs. 
Lamborn,  with  her  two  young  daughters,  removed  to  St.  Paul, 
Minn.,  where  they  have  since  made  their  home. 

Mrs.  Lamborn  is  now  in  middle  life.  She  is  a  woman  of 
liberal  culture,  scholarly  tastes,  and  of  decided  poetic  gifts.  Like 
her  distinguished  brother,  she  possesses  a  genial  and  sunny  tem 
perament,  and  her  domestic  life  has  been  a  very  happy  one.  She 
has  felt  the  broadening  influences  of  the  varied  experiences  of 
the  years  spent  among  the  vigorous  and  hopeful  people  of  our  West 
ern  frontier,  and  she  has  travelled  much,  with  her  husband,  both 
in  this  country  and  abroad.  They  recently  visited  Alaska,  on  the 
Pacific  coast,  and  Egypt  and  the  Nile  country,  in  the  Orient ; 
and  subsequently,  in  company  with  her  daughters,  made  an  ex 
tended  visit  to  Italy  and  Germany. 

Mrs.  Lamborn  has  been  an  occasional  contributor  of  short 
stories  in  prose,  and  of  poems,  to  Eastern  journals  and  magazines 
during  the  past  five  years. 

The  poems  published  by  Mrs.  Lamborn  have  been  rhymed  son- 
nets'of  fourteen  lines  each.  This  form  of  verse  is  a  difficult  one, 
and  in  the  use  of  it  she  has  shown  much  artistic  skill  and  deep 
poetic  feeling.  No  complete  collection  of  her  scattered  publica 
tions  has  been  made,  but  in  1887  some  of  her  sonnets  were 
printed  for  private  circulation  in  a  pretty  little  brochure  entitled 
"  Ember  Days." 

BAYARD   TAYLOR. 
BEDOUIN  SONG. 

Published  by  permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 

ROM  the  desert  I  come  to  thee 

On  a  stallion  shod  with  fire ; 
And  the  winds  are  left  behind 

In  the  speed  of  my  desire. 
Under  thy  window  I  stand, 

And  the  midnight  hears  my  cry : 
I  love  thee,  I  love  but  thee, 

With  a  love  that  shall  not  die 


25O  BAYARD    TAYLOR. 


Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  grow  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  judgment 
Book  unfold  ! 

Look  from  thy  window  and  see 

My  passion  and  my  pain ; 
I  lie  on  the  sands  below, 

And  I  faint  in  thy  disdain. 
Let  the  night-winds  touch  thy  brow 

With  the  heat  of  my  burning  sigh, 
And  melt  thee  to  hear  the  vow 
Of  a  love  that  shall  not  die 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
^And  the  stars  are  old, 
'And  the  leaves  of  the  judgment 
Book  unfold ! 

My  steps  are  nightly  driven 
By  the  fever  in  my  breast, 
To  hear  from  thy  lattice  breathed 

The  word  that  shall  give  me  rest. 
Open  the  door  of  thy  heart, 

And  open  thy  chamber  door, 
And  my  kisses  shall  teach  thy  lips 
The  love  that  shall  fade  no  more 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  judgment 
Book  unfold  ! 


THE  SONG  OF  THE   CAMP. 

SUGGESTED   BY  AN   INCIDENT  IN   THE   CRIMEAN   WAR. 
Published  by  permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 

IVE  us  a  song  !"  the  soldiers  cried, 
The  outer  trenches  guarding, 

When  the  heated  guns  of  the  camps  allied 
Grew  weary  of  bombarding. 


BAYARD   TAYLOR. 


The  dark  Redan,  in  silent  scoff, 
Lay  grim  and  threatening  under  ; 

And  the  tawny  mound  of  the  Malakoff 
No  longer  belched  its  thunder. 

There  was  a  pause.     A  guardsman  said, 
"  We  storm  the  forts  to-morrow  ; 

Sing  while  we  may,  another  day 
Will  bring  enough  of  sorrow." 

They  lay  along  the  battery's  side, 

Below  the  smoking  cannon  ; 
Brave  hearts  from  Severn  and  from  Clyde, 

And  from  the  banks  of  Shannon. 

They  sang  of  love,  and  not  of  fame ; 

Forgot  was  Britain's  glory : 
Each  heart  recalled  a  different  name, 

But  all  sang  "Annie  Lawrie." 

Voice  after  voice  caught  up  the  song, 

Until  its  tender  passion 
Rose  like  an  anthem,  rich  and  strong, — 

Their  battle-eve  confession. 

Dear  girl,  her  name  he  dared  not  speak, 

But,  as  the  song  grew  louder, 
Something  upon  the  soldier's  cheek 

Washed  off  the  stains  of  powder. 

Beyond  the  darkening  ocean  burned 

The  bloody  sunset's  embers, 
While  the  Crimean  valleys  learned 

How  English  love  remembers. 

And  once  again  a  fire  of  hell 
Rained  on  the  Russian  quarters, 

With  scream  of  shot,  and  burst  of  shell, 
And  bellowing  of  the  mortars  ! 

And  Irish  Nora's  eyes  are  dim 
For  a  singer,  dumb  and  gory  ; 

And  English  Mary  mourns  for  him 
Who  sang  of  "Annie  Lawrie." 


252  BAYARD   TAYLOR. 


Sleep,  soldiers  !  still  in  honored  rest 
Your  truth  and  valor  wearing ; 

The  bravest  are  the  tenderest, — 
The  loving  are  the  daring. 


HASSAN  TO   HIS   MARE. 

Published  by  permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 

OME,  my  beauty  !  come,  my  desert  darling  ! 

On  my  shoulder  lay  thy  glossy  head ; 
Fear  not,  though  the  barley  sack  be  empty, 
Here's  the  half  of  Hassan's  scanty  bread: 

Thou  shall  have  thy  share  of  dates,  my  beauty  ! 

And  thou  know'st  my  water-skin  is  free : 
Drink  and  welcome,  for  the  wells  are  distant, 

And  my  strength  and  safety  lie  in  thee. 

Bend  thy  forehead  now  to  take  my  kisses ; 

Lift  in  love  thy  dark  and  splendid  eye : 
Thou  art  glad  when  Hassan  mounts  the  saddle, — 

Thou  art  proud  he  owns  thee :  so  am  I. 

Let  the  Sultan  bring  his  boasted  horses, 

Prancing  with  their  diamond-studded  reins ; 

They,  my  darling,  shall  not  match  thy  fleetness 
When  they  course  with  thee  the  desert-plains  ! 

Let  the  Sultan  bring  his  famous  horses, 
Let  him  bring  his  golden  swords  to  me, — 

Bring  his  slaves,  his  eunuchs,  and  his  harem; 
He  would  offer  them  in  vain  for  thee. 

We  have  seen  Damascus,  oh,  my  beauty  ! 

And  the  splendor  of  the  pashas  there ; 
What's  their  pomp  and  riches?     Why,  I  would  not 

Take  them  for  a  handful  of  thy  hair ! 

Khaled  sings  the  praises  of  his  mistress, 
And  because  I've  none  he  pities  me; 

What  care  I  if  he  should  have  a  thousand 
Fairer  than  the  morning?     I  have  thee. 


BAYARD   TAYLOR.  253 


He  will  find  his  passion  growing  cooler, 
Should  her  glance  on  other  suitors  fall ; 

Thou  wilt  ne'er,  my  mistress  and  my  darling, 
Fail  to  answer  at  thy  master's  call. 

By  and  by  some  snow-white  Nedjid  stallion 
Shall  to  thee  his  spring-time  ardor  bring  ; 

And  a  foal,  the  fairest  of  the  desert, 

To  thy  milky  dugs  shall  crouch  and  cling.  . 

Then,  when  Khaled  shows  to  me  his  children, 
I  shall  laugh,  and  bid  him  look  at  thine ; 

Thou  wilt  neigh,  and  lovingly  caress  me, 
With  thy  glossy  neck  laid  close  to  mine. 


THE  WAY-SIDE   DREAM. 

Published  by  permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 

HE  deep  and  lordly  Danube 

Goes  winding  far  below ; 
I  see  the  white-walled  hamlets 

Amid  his  vineyards  glow, 
And  southward,  through  the  ether,  shine 

The  Styrian  hills  of  snow. 

O'er  many  a  league  of  landscape 
Sleeps  the  warm  haze  of  noon  ; 

The  wooing  winds  come  freighted 
With  messages  of  June, 

And  down  among  the  corn  and  flowers 
I  hear  the  water's  tune. 

The  meadow-lark  is  singing, 

As  if  it  still  were  morn  ; 
Within  the  dark  pine-forest 

The  hunter  winds  his  horn, 
And  the  cuckoo's  shy,  complaining  note 

Mocks  the  maidens  in  the  corn. 

I  watch  the  cloud-armada 
Go  sailing  up  the  sky, 
22 


254  BAYARD   TAYLOR. 


Lulled  by  the  murmuring  mountain  grass 

Upon  whose  bed  I  lie, 
And  the  faint  sound  of  noonday  chimes 

That  in  the  distance  die, 

A  warm  and  drowsy  sweetness 

Is  stealing  o'er  my  brain ; 
I  see  no  more  the  Danube 

Sweep  through  his  royal  plain  ; 
I  hear  no  more  the  peasant  girls 

Singing  amid  the  grain. 

Soft,  silvery  wings,  a  moment 
Have  swept  across  my  brow ; 

Again  I  hear  the  water, 

But  its  voice  is  sweeter  now, 

And  the  mocking-bird  and  oriole 
Are  singing  on  the  bough. 

The  elm  and  linden  branches 
Droop  close  and  dark  o'erhead, 

And  the  foaming  forest  brooklet 
Leaps  down  its  rocky  bed ; 

Be  still,  my  heart !  the  seas  are  passed, — 
The  paths  of  home  I  tread  ! 

The  showers  of  creamy  blossoms 

Are  on  the  linden  spray, 
And  down  the  clover  meadow 

They  heap  the  scented  hay, 
And  glad  winds  toss  the  forest  leaves, 

All  the  bright  summer  day. 

Old  playmates  !  bid  me  welcome 

Amid  your  brother-band ; 
Give  me  the  old  affection, — 

The  glowing  grasp  of  hand  ! 
I  seek  no  more  the  realms  of  old, — 

Here  is  my  fatherland  ! 

Come  hither,  gentle  maiden, 

Who  weep'st  in  tender  joy; 
The  rapture  of  thy  presence 

Repays  the  world's  annoy, 
And  calms  the  wild  and  ardent  heart 

Which  warms  the  wandering  boy. 


EMMA   TAYLOR   (LAMBORN).  255 


In  many  a  mountain  fastness, 

By  many  a  river's  foam, 
And  through  the  gorgeous  cities, 

'Twas  loneliness  to  roam; 
For  the  sweetest  music  in  my  heart 

Was  the  olden  songs  of  home. 

Ah,  glen  and  grove  are  vanished, 

And  friends  have  faded  now  j 
The  balmy  Styrian  breezes 

Are  blowing  on  my  brow, 
And  sounds  again  the  cuckoo's  call 

From  the  forest's  inmost  bough. 

Fled  is  that  happy  vision, — 

The  gates  of  slumber  fold  ; 
I  rise  and  journey  onward 

Through  valleys  green  and  old, 
Where  the  far,  white  Alps  announce  the  morn, 

And  keep  the  sunset's  gold. 


EMMA  TAYLOR    (LAMBORN). 

REMEMBRANCE. 

(B.  T.) 
I 
[HEN  wandering  through  the  woods  in  early 

spring 

To  find  the  pale  and  odorous  violet, 
The  path  I  seek  doth  such  remembrance  bring 
Of  one  whose  dearest  memory  thrills  me  yet. 
He  comes  no  more ;  with  each  returning  spring, 
When  hawthorns  bloom,  and  stately  tulip-trees 
Their  golden  blossoms  shed,  and  April's  breeze 
Stirs  dry,  dead  leaves,  and  warms  each  creeping  thing, 
And  wakes  to  life  the  sleeping  hearts  of  flowers ; 
The  meadows,  pink  with  clover  buds,  the  bee 
Soon  finds,  and  sips  the  sweets  in  morning  hours : 
Un plucked,  I  leave  the  flowers  that  once  for  thee 
I  sought.     This  budding  season  brings  dull  cheer  j 
Life's  not  the  same,  since  thou  no  more  art  here. 


256  EMMA   TAYLOR   (LAMBORN). 


CHEYENNE    MOUNTAIN. 

In  accordance  with  her  own  instructions,  the  body  of  Mrs. 
Helen  Hunt  Jackson  was  laid  to  rest  on  the  side  of  Cheyenne 
Mountain,  Colorado,  in  a  lonely  but  charming  spot,  which  she  had 
often  visited  with  her  friends,  and  which,  from  its  profusion  of 
wild  flowers,  she  called  "  My  Garden." 

JOW  could  we  know,  on  that  fair  April  day, 
That  death,  sad   messenger,   would   soon  be 

sent ! 
That  glad,  sweet  day  we  climbed  the  steep 

ascent, 

And  followed  where  thy  footsteps  led  the  way, 
And  heard  thy  glad,  exultant  shout :   "  This  way, 
Dear  friends ;  the  haunts  of  mountain  flowers  to  me 
Are  known ;  here  blooms  my  loved  anemone. 
This  is  the  spot !    Our  steps  here  let  us  stay 
Beneath  these  sheltering  pines."     Now  thou  liest  here. 
Look  down  once  more  with  heavenly  eyes,  and  tell 
The  secrets  hid  in  God's  own  garden,  dear. 
We  follow,  follow  where  thou  lead'st  so  well ; 
Too  blind  to  see,  too  deaf  thy  voice  to  hear ; 
On  Cheyenne  mountain  lone,  dear  friend,  farewell. 


MOUNT  EDGECUMBE. 

Mount  Edgecumbe  is  an  extinct  volcano,  situated  on  the  outer 
most  island  of  the  Sitkan  archipelago.  Its  symmetrical  cone, 
rising  three  thousand  feet  above  the  ocean,  is  covered  with  per 
petual  snow,  and  serves  as  a  noted  landmark  for  vessels  at  sea. 
It  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  mountain  peaks  in  Alaska. 

I  HEN  first   I  saw  thy  snow-crowned,  shining 

dome, 

Rising  majestic  from  an  Arctic  sea, 
In  Arctic  night,  more  fair  than  day  to  me, 
Methought  no  lamp  to  light  the  traveller  home 
Could  fairer  be  than  thou,  snow  mount  Edgecumbe  ! 


J.  WILLIAMS   THORXE.  257 

Mid  forest  islands  of  primeval  pines 
(Whose  shadows  lengthen  into  darker  lines) 
Thou  risest  free  and  clear  to  all  who  come, 
And  sailors  sailing  on  their  lonely  quest 
Watch  not  the  rise  of  moon,  nor  stars,  nor  sun, 
Content  to  know  their  beacon  light  is  one 
Of  whitest,  purest  snow  upon  thy  breast. 
And  come  the  ebb  and  flow  of  rushing  tides, 
This  steadfast  Pharos  shines  and  surely  guides. 

What  smouldering  fires  within  thy  breast  are  bound  ? 
What  sudden  passion  burst  and  rent  thy  crest 
In  ages  gone,  where  now  in  quiet  rest 
Brave  spirits  in  their  happy  hunting  ground  ? 
The  moon  grows  pale  and  hides  her  sickly  face, 
The  stars  blink  coldly  in  the  icy  sea, 
And  ravens  soar  and  croak  incessantly, 
But  thou  art  cold  and  silent  in  thy  place ! 

So  runs  the  legend  of  the  Sitka  race, — 
"  That  brother  unto  sister  spirit  calls," 
When  hoarse  the  raven's  doleful  voice  is  heard. 
He  pecks  the  fresh  green  herb  from  rocky  walls, 
And  never  more  from  out  the  darkened  space 
Of  Edgecumbe's  heart  comes  answer  to  the  bird. 


J.   WILLIAMS  THORNE. 

JOSEPH  WILLIAMS  THORNE,  son  of  Joseph  and  Margaret 
(Williams)  Thorne,  was  born  in  Sadsbury  Township,  on  Christmas 
Day,  1810.  He  is  a  second  cousin  of  the  late  Dr.  Ann  Preston, 
and  also  of  Miss  Annie  Dickinson.  His  education  was  obtained 
at  the  common  schools,  at  Westtown,  and  at  a  school  taught  by 
Enoch  Lewis  in  New  Garden. 

Mr.  Thorne  went  to  North  Carolina  in  1869  and  remained  there 
fourteen  years.  In  1875  ^e  was  elected  to  represent  Warren 
County  in  the  lower  house  of  the  Legislature,  from  which,  after 
serving  two  months,  he  was  expelled,  ostensibly  for  "  having  ad 
vocated  and  promulgated  a  most  blasphemous  document,  subver 
sive  of  the  principles  of  the  constitution  of  North  Carolina  and 
of  sound  morality ;"  but  really  on  account  of  his  radical  Republi 
canism.  Mr.  Thorne  is  a  member  of  the  Society  of  Progressive 
Friends  :  the  document  referred  to  in  the  resolution  was  a  pam 
phlet  published  by  him  in  reply  to  a  lecture  delivered  in  Coates- 
r  22* 


J.  WILLIAMS   THORNE. 


ville,  Chester  County,  by  Joseph  Barker,  with  the  doctrines  advanced 
in  which  Mr.  Thome  did  not  agree.  In  the  August  following 
his  expulsion  he  was  elected  a  member  of  the  Constitutional  Con 
vention,  and  one  year  later  was  chosen  to  represent  Warren 
County  in  the  State  Senate.  Just  five  years  after  his  expulsion  the 
House  of  Representatives,  by  a  unanimous  vote,  expunged  the  ex 
pelling  resolution  from  the  record. 

Mr.  Thome  from  his  earliest  youth  was  charmed  with  poetry, 
and  memorized  much  of  it  without  effort.  He  began  to  write 
verses  in  his  seventeenth  year.  His  first  efforts  were  published  in 
the  Register  and  Examiner,  in  West  Chester,  and  in  the  National 
Inquirer,  an  anti-slavery  paper  edited  by  Benjamin  Lundy. 


NATURE   PROMPTING  TO   DEVOTION. 

UR  heavenly  father,  kindly  wise, 

Has  spread  before  our  sight 
The  loveliness  of  earth  and  skies, 

To  claim  our  praise  aright, — 

That  while  our  eyes  with  rapture  see 

Each  good  and  pleasant  thing, 
Our  tender  gratitude  may  be 

An  unfeigned  offering. 

The  blossomed  shrubs  that  charm  the  grove, 

The  streamlets  flowing  there, 
And  songs  of  wild  birds  as  they  rove 

In  the  soft  vernal  air, — 

Were  they  not  given  to  raise  our  hearts 

To  Him  who  reigns  above? 
Whose  ever  bounteous  hand  imparts 

Such  unasked  gifts  of  love? 

Is  not  the  earth  with  plenty  filled  ? 

Do  not  the  fields  o'erflow, 
And  almost  without  culture  yield 

Whate'er  the  clime  can  grow? 

And  shall  our  stubborn  hearts  refuse 

The  grateful  song  to  raise  ? 
And  while  each  pleasant  gift  we  use 

Neglect  the  giver's  praise  ? 


EMMALINE  WALTON.  259 

• 

Do  not  the  gales  that  round  us  breathe 

Fresh  fragrance  as  they  rove, 
The  flowers  that  careless  blow  beneath, 

And  the  blue  heavens  above, 

The  rivers  as  they  ceaseless  run, 

The  restless  ocean's  flow, 
And  the  still  burning  quenchless  sun, 

Their. heavenly  author  show? 

Do  not  the  stars  that  shine  so  bright, 

In  the  deep  wilds  of  space, 
Seem  as  the  Maker's  guiding  light 

To  our  last  resting-place  ? 

And  while  we  in  these  orbs  of  fire 

His  holy  hand  descry, 
Do  they  not  tender  hopes  inspire 

Of  immortality? 

Then  let  us  praise  him  and  adore 

In  early  youth's  fresh  bloom, 
Nor  cease  till  life's  pulse  beat  no  more, 

And  the  last  summons  come. 

Devotion's  fires,  so  purely  bright, 

Shall  cheer  our  lives  along, 
"And  he  who  was  our  morning  light 

Shall  be  our  evening  song." 


EMMALINE  WALTON. 


EMMALINE  WALTON,  daughter  of  Lewis  and  Elizabeth  H. 
Walton,  was  born  in  the  eastern  part  of  what  was  then  West  Fal- 
lowfield,  but  is  now  Highland  Township,  August  10,  1834.  She 
was  educated  at  the  public  schools  near  her  home,  and  at  the 
Kennet  Square  Seminary  of  Samuel  Martin.  All  her  life,  except 
a  few  years,  has  been  spent  in  Chester  County.  She  has  written 
much  poetry  for  amusement  and  recreation,  some  of  which,  through 
the  partiality  of  friends,  has  been  published  in  the  Friends' 
Intelligencer. 


26O  EMMALINE   WALTON. 

LINES 

WRITTEN   ON  RECEIVING  A   BOX  OF « TRAILING  ARBUTUS. 

OR  thy  fond  gift  thou  canst  not  know  the 

feeling 

That  stirs  my  heart  to-night, 
The  memories  of  the  past  that  jcome  revealing 
Their  cherished  treasures  bright. 

The  years  are  many  I  have  trod  earth's  pathway, 

And  of  life's  lessons  learned, 
Since  first,  like  thee,  to  find  the  sweet  Arbutus, 

The  forest  leaves  I  turned. 

But  while  within  my  eyes  love's  tear-drops  glisten, 

As  nature  brings  anew 
The  robes  of  spring,  its  bud,  and  leaf,  and  blossom, 

And  welcome  song-bird  too ; 

As  tender  love  recalls  a  late  fond  presence 

Of  dear  departed  worth, 
The  gladness  of  thy  heart,  I  know,  is  tempered 

By  early  sorrow's  birth. 

A  parent's  praise  seems  meet  to  own  thy  offering, 

In  fondness  that  he  knew ; 
A  "silver  cord"  had  reached  beyond  earth's  borders 

Since  last  year  lowly  grew 

The  sweet  Arbutus,  trailing  in  the  woodland, 

Where  thou  hast  found  with  care 
These  lovely  flowers,  and  sent  thy  kindly  offering 

That  we  might  have  a  share. 

Thou  canst  not  know  the  peace  beyond  the  river 

Our  loved  ones  there  may  know ; 
But  calmly  trust  that  God,  the  Allwise  giver, 

Knew  best  when  they  should  go. 

Thanks  for  these  flowers  of  beauty  and  of  fragrance, 

And  for  thy  love  sincere, 
That  prompted  thee  to  kindly  send  them  to  us, 

Our  burdened  hearts  to  cheer. 


EMMAL1NE   WALTON.  26 1 


They  come  with  verdure  from  my  native  woodland, 

My  native  woods  and  thine, 
For  all  the  childhood  pathways  thou  art  pressing 

In  early  life  were  mine. 

Sweet  flower's,  so  beautiful  and  humbly  creeping, — 

Truly  of  modest  birth, — 
Just  where,  our  Heavenly  Father  bid  them  grow 

And  blossom  low  on  earth. 

In  nature's  groves  no  lofty  place  they  needed, — 

True  worth  is  often  found, 
Its  modest,  good,  and  generous  gifts  bestowing,  t 

On  quiet,  stable  ground. 

Here  both  are  sought  by  many  an  earnest  seeker, 

Their  worth  is  free  to  all ; 
The  rich,  the  poor,  the  old,  the  young,  may  gather, 

For  palace,  hut,  or  hall. 

ENVOY. 

Be  good  and  kind,  and  may  thy  life  be  happy, 

And  by  its  sweetness  known ; 
A  harvest  blessed  be  thine  in  time  of  reaping, 

From  good  seed  early  sown.  v 

Though  thou  shouldst  seem  to  dwell  in  lowly  places, 

Remember,  God  is  love  ; 
No  forest  shade  can  hide  His  glorious  sunlight 

From  hearts  that  look  above. 


VACANT  PLACES. 
"  Who  are  left  to  fill  the  vacant  places  ?" 

by  one  the  kind  and  gentle,  loving  spirits 

glide  away, 
Who  have  done  their  life-work  nobly,  who 

have  labored  while  'twas  day. 
Kindred  hearts  are  bowed  in  sorrow,  these  are  missed 

from  Friendship's  band, — 

Missed  where  they  were  wont   to  mingle,  loved  and 
mourned  on  every  hand. 


262  LILLIAN   WEAVER. 

Voices  silent,  faces  absent,  that  have  given  love  and 

light, 
With  their  cheerful,  kindly  greeting,  walking  sweetly  in 

the  right. 
"  Who  will  fill  the  vacant  places,"  who  the  fallen  mantle 

wear  ? 
Who  will  cheer  where  they  have  gladdened,  who  like 

them  the  cross  will  bear  ? 

Who  will  give  the  bread  and  water  with  a  free  and  gen 
erous  hand? 

Who  will  minister  glad  tidings,  love  and  peace  through 
out  the  land  ? 
Oh,  tiiese  lives,  so  good  and  useful,  all  so  full  of  love 

and  truth, 
Who  have  well  fulfilled  their  mission,  from  the  dawning 

of  their  youth ; 
And  have  left  us,  passing  meekly,  'neath  the  Father's 

chastening  rod, 
Their  example  still  may  teach  us  deeper  love  and  faith 

in  God. 

He  alone  can  fill  the  places  of  the  laborers  called  aside ; 
Ere   the  fields  are   white   for   harvest,  He   can  won- 

drously  provide. 
From  the  ranks  we  least  may  reckon  standard-bearers 

may  arise, 
While  more  humble  duties  others  must  perform,  but 

not  despise. 
Let  us  then  not  mourn  too  sadly,  but,  in  spite  of  doubt 

and  fear, 
Strive  to  make  our  lives  a  blessing,  while  in  faith  we 

tarry  here ; 
And,  like  them,  'til  life  is  ended,  calmly,  peacefully 

await, 
Knowing  there  is  joy  and  gladness  just   beyond  the 

heavenly  gate. 


LILLIAN   WEAVER. 

THIS  writer  is  the  only  child  of  Rev.  William  and  Susan 
Catharine  (Painter)  Weaver.  She  was  born  in  I'hoenixville,  July 
16,  1860,  and  received  her  early  education  at  her  home  ;  and  at  the 
age  of  eleven  years  she  was  sent  to  Ivy  Institute,  I'hoenixville, 
which  she  attended  for  some  years  and  showed  great  proficiency 


LILLIAN    WEAVER.  263 


in  learning.  While  attending  school  she  showed  a  decided  taste 
for  verse  making,  and  wrote  her  weekly  compositions  in  rhyme, 
"  because  it  was  easier."  She  was  prevented  from  entering  college 
by  the  fragile  condition  of  her  constitution,  and  finished  her  edu 
cation  under  the  tuition  of  the  Rev.  F.  C.  C.  Kahler,.who  was  at 
that  time  pastor  of  the  Lutheran  Church  in  Phcenixville.  Her 
favorite  studies  are  the  English  and  German  languages.  Of  the 
latter  she  has  an  accurate  and  extensive  knowledge,  and  has  made 
herself  familiar  with  the  writings  of  a  large  number  of  the  most 
celebrated  German  authors,  many  of  whose  poems  she  had  trans 
lated  into  English  verse.  Some  of  her  translations  from  the 
German  and  a  number  of  her  original  poems  have  been  pub 
lished  in  The  Lutheran.  She  is  also  a  regular  contributor  to 
several  periodicals  published  in  Boston.* 


A   VILLANELLE. 

TO   A   BUNCH   OF   FADED   VIOLETS. 

IOLETS  withered  and  dry,— 

Blossoms  of  long,  long  ago, — 
Why  did  I  keep  you,  oh,  why? 

Well  I  remember  when  I 

Saw  you  as  white  as  the  snow, 
Violets  withered  and  dry. 

Some  one  with  tenderest  sigh 

Gave  you  to  me  then,  and  oh  ! 
Why  did  I  keep  you,  oh,  why? 

Surely  'twere  better  to  die 

Beautiful,  than  thus  to  grow, 
Violets,  withered  and  dry. 

Did  a  romance  near  you  lie? 

He  is  since  married,  and  so 
Why  did  I  keep  you,  oh,  why? 

No  tender  memories  cry — 

I  loved  another,  I  know — 
Violets,  withered  and  dry, 
Why  did  I  keep  you,  oh,  why? 

*  While  this  book  was  going  through  the  press  we  learned  that 
Miss  Weaver  was  married,  February  21,  1889,  to  Rev.  Ernest  R. 
Cassaday,  a  Lutheran  minister  of  Philadelphia,  in  which  city  she 
now  resides  with  her  husband. 


264  LILLIAN   WEAVER. 


TRAILING   ARBUTUS. 

RAILING   ARBUTUS,  so  dainty  and  sweet, 
Blushing  whene'er  the  sun's  glances  you  meet, 
As  a  shy  maiden,  half  loath  to  discover 
That  her  warm  friend  has  changed  to  a  lover, 

Hiding  with  modest  coquetry  so  rare, 
Knowing  dead  leaves  make  your  beauty  more  fair, 
Gayly  I  pluck  you  with  light,  eager  fingers, 
While  close  beside  me  caressingly  lingers 

Some  one,  whose  glance  is  to  me  like  the  sun, 
Yet,  as  Arbutus,  his  gaze  I  would  shun. 
Ah,  little  May  flower,  you  are  half  human — 
The  form  of  a  flower — the  heart  of  a  wonan  ! 


A   BALLADE. 

NOWEST  thou,  oh,  rippling  stream, 
As  thou  singest  on  thy  way, 

That  the  sun,  whose  golden  gleam 
Woos  thee  all  the  summer  day, 
Is  a  thief,  whose  warmest  ray 

Steals  the  most  of  life  from  thee, 
And  would  win  thee  to  delay 

From  thy  goal — the  boundless  sea? 

Knowest  thou,  the  clouds,  which  seem, 
As  they  lower,  dark  and  gray, 

With  thy  very  life-blood  teem, 
And  that  thou  wouldst  fall  a  prey 
To  the  hot  sun's  cruel  sway, 

As  thou  windest  o'er  the  lea, 
If  the  clouds  would  let  thee  stay 

From  thy  goal — the  boundless  sea  ? 

Rippling  streamlet,  dost  thou  dream, 
When  thy  breast  with  gold  is  gay, 

That  the  sunlight's  burning  beam 
Is  a  foe,  and  clouds  are  they, 


WILLIAM   WHITEHEAD.  265 

Who  fight  for  thee  in  the  fray, 
And  impel  thee  e'er  to  flee, 

Lest  death  keep  thee  by  decay 
From  thy  goal — the  boundless  sea  ? 

i 

ENVOY. 

Friend,  thy  stream  of  life  soon  may 
Flow  where  time  has  ceased  to  be : 

Let  not  gold  woo  thee  to  stray 
From  thy  goal — the  boundless  sea. 


A  LEAF  FROM  NATURE. 

|lTH  science,  through  long  nights  and  weary 

days, 

Wise  men  have  striven  to  unravel  life, 
And,  while  they  vex  their   finite   minds  in 

ways 

Too  complex  for  a  God,  around  them,  rife 
With  simple  lessons,  nature  lies  to  teach 

The  plan  of  her  Creator.     Lo  !  His  laws 
Control  the  earth  beneath  us,  and  they  reach 

Through  us  to  heaven  and  angels.     Let  us  pause, 
And  look  how  nobly  lower  life  than  ours 

Obeys  His  mandates.     Plants  and  blossoms  turn 
By  instinct  to  the  sun,  nor  doubt  its  powers 
Because  its  rays  too  countless  are  to  learn. 
As  well  the  flowers  might  deny  the  light, 
As  we  should  doubt  our  God  in  all  His  might ! 


WILLIAM   WHITEHEAD. 

WILLIAM  WHITEHEAD,  son  of  William  and  Rebecca  (Keehmle) 
Whitehead,  was  born  in  Neve  York  City,  August  17,  1807,  and 
died  in  West  Chester,  April  24,  1886.  In  consequence  of  the 
death  of  his  parents  his  early  life  was  spent  with  relatives  in  Phil 
adelphia.  In  youth  he  learned  the  trade  of  chair-making  in  West 
Chester,  and  in  1832  became  connected  with  the  National  Repub 
lican  Advocate  of  that  town.  Two  years  later  he  disposed  of  his 
interest  in  the  Advocate,  and  engaged  in  teaching  school.  Later 
M  23 


266  WILLIAM    WHITEHEAD. 


in  life  he  studied  and  practised  dentistry,  and  still  later  engaged 
in  merchandizing.  In  1860  he  was  elected  a  justice  of  the  peace, 
in  which  capacity  he  served  with  great  acceptability  for  many 
years.  In  1839  he  married  Lucretia  Fleming.  They  were  the 
parents  of  five  children.  He  joined  the  Presbyterian  Church  in 
early  life  and  remained  an  exemplary  member  of  it  until  his  death. 
Mr.  Whitehead  was  the  author  of  a  large  number  of  fine  poems, 
which  compare  favorably  with  the  writings  of  the  best  poets  of 
Chester  County.  In  1872  he  published  a  small  volume  entitled 
"  Etoile  and  Other  Poems,"  which  was  well  received  by  the  public. 


THE   SABBATH  BELL. 

HE  Sabbath  bell,  the  Sabbath  bell, 

I  bless  the  welcome  sound ; 
Around  my  heart  its  echoes  swell, 

And  o'er  the  hill-tops  bound. 
'Tis  sweeter  than  the  morning  bird 

That  hails  the  sparkling  dawn  ; 
It  speaks  of  faith's  sublimest  word, 

A  Sabbath  newly  born. 

The  Sabbath  bell,  the  Sabbath  bell, 

Like  that  sweet  voice  of  yore, 
That  still'd  the  ocean's  angry  swell, 

And  taught  upon  the  shore, 
Has  hushed  the  tumult  of  my  heart 

And  green'd  the  desert  there ; 
And  from  the  sloth  of  sin  I  start, 

To  breathe  the  secret  prayer. 

Oh,  many  feet  shall  tread  the  aisle 

Of  Zion's  house  to-day, 
And  many  hearts  unstained  with  guile 

There  bless  the  narrow  way ; 
And  happy  they  that  hear  to  live, 

When  God  the  heart  shall  claim, 
And  love's  diviner  feeling  give 

Life's  deeds  an  upward  aim  ! 

I've  wander'd  by  the  grassy  mound, 
Where  battle's  conflict  roll'd, 

O'er  Marathon's  historic  ground, 
Enrich'd  with  human  mould; 


WILLIAM  WHITEHEAD.  267 

Where  men's  ambitious  prowess  died 

On  stern  Plsetea's  day, 
And  monuments  of  manly  pride 

Have  bow'd  to  time's  decay. 

I've  stood  beside  the  pyramid 

On  Egypt's  lonely  waste, 
Above  her  temples  and  her  dead, 

By  sterile  sands  embrac'd  ; 
Upon  the  wild  Carnatic  shore, 

Where  Brahma's  children  die, 
I've  watch'd  the  pyre  that  slowly  bore 

The  widow's  faith  on  high  ! 

But  not  a  sound  came  there  to  bless, 

Of  mercy  or  of  love  ; 
No  word  revived  the  wilderness, 

No  blessings  beamed  above ; 
Naught  but  a  sad  remembrance  swept 

Across  the  battle  plain, 
And  mouldering  temples  echoed  yet 

The  tread  of  ruthless  men. 

I  love  the  spot  where  blessings  come, 

And  paths  are  lit  with  peace ; 
They're  brighter  than  where  glory  shone 

Upon  the  hosts  of  Greece. 
The  vales  where  hymns  of  praise  ascend, 

And  man  forgets  his  pride, 
Are  nobler  than  the  deeds  that  blend 

With  old  Scamander's  tide. 

There  is  a  charm  where  Memnon  greets 

The  morn's  ascending  beam, 
And  stirring  memory  backward  sweeps 

Upon  the  Nile's  swift  stream  ; 
But  desert  solitudes  can  give 

The  pilgrim's  path  no  ray ; 
The  hermit  heart  may  o'er  them  grieve, 

But  find  no  upward  day  ! 

My  heart  is  with  my  native  land, 
The  meads  that  childhood  roam'd  ; 

And  when  upon  the  spot  I  stand, 
That  long  affection  own'd  ; 


268  WILLIAM   WHITEHEAD. 


I  love  them  more  for  Sabbaths  giv'n, 
For  prayers  that  humbly  swell, — 

The  faith  that  lifts  the  eye  to  heav'n, 
The  holy  Sabbath  bell ! 


IN   MEMORIAM. 

BAYARD  TAYLOR  AND  COLONEL  FRED  TAYLOR  IN  LONG- 
WOOD  CEMETERY. 

READ  kindly  !  nor  with  listless  air 

Pass  by  the  brother's  cold  remains  ! 
There  is  a  warrior  resting  here, 

And  resteth  one  whose  lyre  had  strains 

To  be  remembered  by  his  land ; 
And  we,  who  muse  upon  the  past, 
Beside  the  spot  where  Death  has  cast 
The  dull  mortality,  no  more 
Glowing  with  life's  mysterioys  power, 

Will  not  forget  the  one  whose  hand 
Was  raised  to  stay  the  traitor's  course, 
Nor  him  who  breathed  immortal  verse. 

Slain  !  slain  !  O  dweller  of  the  tomb  ! 

Ere  life  had  known  the  pulse  of  fame — 
Slain  that  the  ages  yet  to  come 
May  give  to  man  a  nobler  aim, 

A  high  and  holier  page  to  time. 
Thy  sword  may  never  flash  again 
Where  stern  invasion  swept  the  plain  : 
'Tis  justly  thine,  the  laurel  bloom, 
That  honors  all  thy  early  doom, 

And  leaves  a  light  on  earth  to  shine; 
Death,  too,  was  hallowed  by  the  deed 
That  answered  to  thy  country's  need. 

And  thou,  dear  bard,  whose  harp  had  won 

The  fervor  of  all  hearts  to  thee, 
We  mourn  that  'neath  life's  noonday  sun 

Thy  song  was  never  more  to  be — 
Thy  minstrelsy  an  ended  strain. 


BRINTON   W.  WOODWARD.  269 


Expectants  of  a  future  store, 

We  lose  thy  richer,  deeper  lore, 

When  thoughts  their  brightest  garland  wreathe, 

And  souls  maturer  harvests  give 

Than  springtide  days  can  ever  claim  : 
O  Fame  !  though  green  thy  laurels  be, 
Death  stays  no  garnering  hand  for  thee  ! 

But  not  alone  with  rhythmic  grace 

Wert  thou  content  thy  muse  should  soar ; 

Thy  thoughtful  footsteps  sought  to  trace 
Historic  path'ways  by  the  shore 

Where  nations  met  the  avenger's  rage. 

To  thee  on  Egypt's  sterile  plain 

The  voices  of  the  ages  came  ; 

And  Arctic  wilds,  whose  terror-broods 

Won  thee  within  their  solitudes, 

And  taught  thee  of  the  Runic  age  : 

With  gems  of  lore  thy  mind  was  stored 

From  every  page  thy  search  explored  ! 

Funereal  yews  may  lend  their  shade 

To  sadden  o'er  thy  silent  rest ; 
No  eye  to  light  where  beauty  played, 
No  lips  to  soothe  a  heart  oppressed, 

And  trembling  harp-strings  charm  no  more  ; 
Yet  blessed  they  who  leave  on  earth 
Some  tokens  of  enduring  worth  ; 
Whose  days  breathed  forth  sweet  psalms  of  life 
To  smooth  the  rugged  ways  of  strife ; 

Thus  shall  their  memory  soar, 
And  from  the  cerements  of  the  tomb 
The  beautiful  forever  bloom. 


BRINTON   W.   WOODWARD. 

• 

BRINTON  WEBB  WOODWARD,  son  of  Caleb  and  Mary  Webb 
Woodward,  was  born  in  East  Marlborough  Township,  February 
14,  1834.  He  was  educated  at  Union ville  Academy,  and  taught 
school  in  West  Fallowfield,  at  Birmingham,  and  in  Lancaster 
County. 

Early  in  1855  ne  removed  to  Kansas  Territory,  locating  at  Law- 

23* 


2/O  BRINTON    W.  WOODWARD. 


rence,  and  took  an  active  part  in  the  fiery  struggle  which  resulted 
in  making  Kansas  a  free  State.  He  engaged  in  the  drug  business 
in  Lawrence,  and  his  establishment  is  one  of  the  oldest  in  the 
State.  He  has  taken  an  active  part  in  the  promotion  of  education, 
and  for  many  years  was  president  of  the  City  Board  of  Education  ; 
and  also  served  as  regent  and  vice-president  of  the  State  Uni 
versity  of  Kansas.  Travelling  extensively,  at  home  and  abroad, 
he  has  made  a  collection  of  American  and  foreign  paintings,  and 
has  at  his  home,  Brynwood,  Lawrence,  the  only  private  picture- 
gallery  in  the  State. 

Much  of  his  time  of  late  years  has  been  devoted  to  literary  pur 
suits.  His  writings,  which  have  been  published  in  Western  papers 
and  reviews,  are  chiefly  in  prose,  and  devoted  to  subjects  of  art, 
history,  travel,  and  literary  criticism ;  but  he  is  also  a  poet,  and 
has  written  and  published  many  fine  poems  of  great  merit. 


ST.    AUGUSTINE. 

N  San  Augustine's  moss-grown  wall 
The  tides  of  ocean  rise  and  fall : 
As  lapping  of  the  tides,  Time  sees 
The  course  of  empires,  dynasties; 
They  rise,  they  fall,  and  who  shall  say 
Save  Time,  who  knoweth  yesterday, 
To-day,  and  shall  to-morrow  know, 
Whether  the  ceaseless  ebb  and  flow 
Shall  bear  our  Nation's  fortunes  on 
To  "  heights  of  glory  yet  unwon," — 
Or,  late  or  soon,  the  Right  defied, 
Shall  crumble  every  mount  of  pride, 
And  whelm  her  in  Oblivion's  tide? 

Here  throng  the  memories  of  her  reign, 
Once  monarch  of  the  land  and  main, 
Queen  of  two  hemispheres,  proud  Spain  1 
The  centuries  have  come  and  gone, 
Claiming  her  conquests  one  by  one. 
In  all  the  shore  we  tread  upon 
This  coast  that  lies  beneath  the  sun, 
One  massive  fort  of  fnouldering  stone 
Preserves  her  memory — one  alone, — 
San  Marco,  now  Fort  Marion. 
****** 

Without  command,  or  tap  of  drum, 
Phantoms  in  armor,  rayless,  dumb, 


BRINTON   W.  WOODWARD.  27! 

How  fancy's  thronging  legions  come  ! 
It  needs  no  captain,  troop,  nor  gun 
To  give  the  Old  Fort  garrison. 

Lone  figure  from  thronged  History's  page,, 

Last  watch-tower  of  the  Middle  Age, 

An  outpost  of  a  force  withdrawn  ; 

A  lingerer,  who  waits  alone, 

Unconscious  of  his  comrades  gone ; 

A  sentinel,  with  ward  to  keep, 

That  slept  the  centuries'  dreamless  sleep, — 

Still  standing  thus,  so  silent,  grim, 

As  Sleep  and  Death  were  one  to  him : 

Twixt  waters  blue  and  meadows  green, 

Thus  stands  thy  Fort — St.  Augustine  ! 


IN  BOYHOOD. 

N  fancy,  still  as  glad  as  then, 
I  seek  each  thicket,  glade,  and  glen, 
Where  woodsy  odors,  wild  and  sweet, 
Rise  up  at  every  crush  of  feet ; 
Where  waves  the  plumy  fern,  and  dank, 
Green  mosses  carpet  rock  and  bank. 
On  knolls  that  boast  "the  Barrens"  name, 
The  mountain-pink,  a  sheet  of  flame, 
In  distance  burns ;  but,  glowing  near, 
Azalea's  trumpets  fill  the  air 
With  pungent  perfume  blown  afar. 

The  kalmeas  waxen  clusters  spread 
On  rocky  slopes,  while  overhead 
The  dogwood  drops  its  petal  snows, 
And,  fragrant  with  each  wind  that  blows, 
By  roadside  blooms  the  sweetbrier  rose. 
****** 

Far  down  along  the  forest  glades, 
Upspringing  'mid  the  woodland  shades, 
With  graceful,  true,  and  tapering  lines 
As  California's  sugar-pines, 
The  Liriodendron  skyward  showers 
A  thousand  glorious  tulip  flowers. 


272  BRIXTON    W.  WOODWARD. 

Tinted  with  orange,  green,  and  gold, 
Its  cups  a  honeyed  nectar  hold, 
Where  bee  and  humming-bird  in  tune 
Make  glad  the  lightsome  airs  of  June. 
Each  cup  amid  the  glistening  leaves 
A  largess  to  the  summer  gives, 
For  dews  of  heaven  it  receives, — 
Queen  of  all  forests  yet  to  me, 
The  Pennsylvania  tulip-tree ! 

****** 

Nor  one  of  all  the  thousand  rills, 

Amid  the  everlasting  hills, 

Dashing  from  rock  to  rock  their  spray, 

Or  stealing  silently  away ; 

From  Ammonoosuc's  windings  shy, 

To  Mercede's  sources,  far  and  high, 

Where  sharp  Sierras  pierce  the  sky  : 

Not  one,  or  all  of  these  whose  praise 

Poets  sing  in  tuneful  lays. 

Shall  quicken  pulse  of  mine  in  joy 

Like  that  one  brook  I  knew  as  boy ! 

The  rill  that  all  the  livelong  day, 

With  rocks  and  pebbles  smooth  at  play, 

Made  everlasting  roundelay ! 

Where  oft  I  paddled  "barefoot"  feet, 

Built  my  mills,  and  sailed  my  fleet, 

Just  where  the  woods  and  meadows  meet. 

On  sweeter  stream  I  ne'er  shall  look 

Than  that  little  nameless  brook, 

Whose  springs  of  life  were  near  to  mine,- 

The  brook  that  ran  to  Brandywine  ! 


CHESTER  COUNTY. 

F  all  life's  memories,  none  so  near 
As  childhood's  scenes,  no  joys  more  dear  ! 
To  me,  while  wandering  East  or  West, 
Where  Nature  spreads  her  choicest,  best, 
No  mounts  a  fairer  prospect  show 
Than  thy  north  fields,  East  Marlboro'  ; 
Whence  Bradford  towns,  and  "Laurel"  woods, 
And  Newlin's  meadows,  wet  with  floods, 


LAVINIA    P.    YEATMAN.  2/3 

But  heighten  th"  opposing  scene 
Where  plains  of  Fallowfield  lie  green, 
With  Doe  Run  Valley  spread  between ; 
And  westward  rise,  like  sloping  lawn, 
The  hills  of  Highland  and  of  Cain  ! 

How  oft,  in  boyhood's  early  day, 
I  viewed  those  hills,  ten  miles  away, 
And  longed  for  all  the  world  unknown, 
That  lay  beyond  their  purple  zone  ! 

****** 

That  world  unknown  has  come  to  me 
From  Eastern  hills  to  Western  sea. 
In  manhood  sought,  the  horizon  shifts  — 
Its  purple  glamour  fades — and  lifts. 
Onward  ! — the  glamour  lifts  and  fades, — 
Till  age  draws  on  with  twilight  shades. 

Haply  if,  when  no  more  for  me 
Earth's  glamour  rests  on  land  or  sea, 
To  eye  of  faith  the  glory  lies 
On  world  unknown  beyond  the  skies. 


LAVINIA   P.   YEATMAN. 

LAVINIA  P.  YEATMAN,  daughter  of  Carleton  and  Mary  Mather 
Passmoie,  and  wife  of  John  Marshall  Yeatman,  was  born  in 
Philadelphia.  Her  father,  a  graduate  of  Westtown  School,  and  a 
fine  classical  scholar,  with  his  wife,  who  was  an  accomplished 
musician,  conducted  a  large  seminary  there.  In  1828,  when  their 
children  were  quite  small,  they  removed  to  the  old  Passmore  home 
stead  in  Kennet  Township.  Her  home  education,  with  the  use  of 
a  good  public  library  which  her  father  was  instrumental  in  found 
ing  in  the  village  of  Fairville,  gave  her  advantages  in  acquiring 
knowledge  rarely  enjoyed  at  that  time.  When  about  twelve  years 
old  she  wrote  a  poem  "  To  a  Robin,"  which  pleased  her  father  so  well 
that  he  sent  it  to  the  editors  of  the  Village  Record,\\\  which  paper, 
and  also  the  Saturday  Evening  Post,  her  earlier  writings  appeared. 

Having  descended  through  eight  generations  of  Friends  from 
"  gentle  Thomas  Carleton,"  the  persuasive  Quaker  preacher,  a 
friend  of  George  Fox,  Mrs.  Yeatman  embodied  her  faith  in 
"  Edith,"  a  poem  of  three  thousand  lines,  which  was  published  by 
Lippincotts,  Philadelphia,  in  1882.  Of  this  J.  G.  Whittier  writes, 
"  This  beautiful  poem  is  pervaded,  through  and  through,  with 
the  spirit  of  Quakerism." 


2/4  LAVINIA    P.  YEATMAN. 

SPRING. 

"  A  welcome  lightly  give  when  joy  is  with  thee." 

IHERE'S  a  step  on  the  valley,  a  smile  on  the 

hill; 
There's  a  sound  cometh  up  from  the  leap  of 

the  rill ; 

There's  a  voice  on  the  zephyr  that  floateth  along, — 
It  whispers  of  gladness,  it  telleth  of  song ; 
And  the  harps  of  the  wind-spirits  joyously  ring 
To  the  glee  of  thy  coming,  spring,  beautiful  spring  ! 

There's  a  cadence  that  wakes  on  the  soft,  dreamy  air, 
'Mid  the  glow  of  the  twilight  it  revelleth  there  ; 
In  the  flush  of  the  morning,  the  shade  of  the  night, 
It  speaketh  of  joyance,  of  love,  and  of  light ; 
The  nymphs  of  the  forest-dells  laughingly  sing 
To  thy  harmonized  anthem,  spring,  -beautiful  spring ! 

There's  a  hue  on  the  sky ;  there's  a  hue  on  the  cloud 
As  it  circles  the  azure  vault  soft  in  its  shroud ; 
There's  a  glow  on  the  forest,  the  valley,  the  mount, 
Pure,  fresh  as  the  ripple  of  Siloam's  fount ; 
The  sylphs  of  the  rainbow  triumphantly  bring 
Their  bright  tints  to  greet  thee,  spring,  beautiful  spring  ! 

Up,  up  from  the  forest-dells  stealeth  the  breath 

Of  the  starry-eyed  gems  of  the  song,  and  the  wreath, 

With  a  fragrance  as  rich  as  that  breathed  in  the  thrall 

Of  the  magical  gift  of  the  bright  Npurmahal  ; 

As  the  Genie  of  air  from  their  sweet  censers  fling 

Their  incense  around  thee,  spring,  beautiful  spring  ! 

Oh,  bright  at  thy  bidding,  the  air  and  the  earth 
Hath  started  to  gladness,  hath  wakened  to  mirth, 
And  richly  thy  frolic-hand  round  us  hath  cast 
The  gems  of  the  present  linked  sweet  with  the  past ; 
And  up  from  our  hearts,  too,  the  chorus  shall  ring, — 
All  hail  to  thy  coming,  spring,  beautiful  spring  ! 

So  changeful,  so  fair,  thou  art  here  with  us  now, 
With  the  dew  on  thy  lip,  and  the  bud  on  thy  brow; 


LAVINIA    P.  YEATMAN.  2/5 

With  the  flush  of  thy  beauty,  so  brilliant  and  wild 
That  the  glad  soul  springs  up  with  the  glee  of  a  child, 
And  gazes  on  thee  as  some  magical  thing, 
With  a  conjurer's  gorgeousness,  beautiful  spring  ! 

And  oh  !  in  thy  glory,  as  lightly  along 

In  thy  birthright  of  promise  thou  glidest  in  song, 

Still  be  thy  light  footstep,  wherever  it  rests, 

An  earnest  of  hope,  and  of  peace  to  the  breast, 

Till  the  wearied  in  spirit,  rejoicing,  shall  sing, — 

Hail,  hail  to  thy  promise,  spring,  beautiful,  spring ! 


QUAKER   MEETING. 

From  "  Edith,"  by  permission. 

|N  the  quiet  Quaker  meeting, 
Sitting  silently  and  calm, 
While  the  soft,  low  breeze,  'mid  the  shading 

trees, 

Whispers  a  faint,  sweet  psalm, — 
So  soft  and  low  that  the  spirit,  athirst, 
Heareth  and  drinketh  its  balm. 

Out-door  the  voice  of  singing  bird 

Unrolls  a  listening  pleasure, 
While  the  hush  and  hum  of  the  bee's  low  thrum 

Seeking  her  waxen  treasure, 
All  speak  of  the  joy  surrounding  life 

In  nature's  stintless  measure. 

Within,  with  mild,  collected  face, 

And  hands  in  meekness  folded, 
While  downcast  eyes  and  reverent  grace 

Feel  "  God  is  in  His  holy  place, 
Be  ye  devoutly  moulded," 

Sit  maid  and  matron,  sire  and  son, 
Before  the  great  all-seeing  One. 

How  deeply  falls  the  silence, 
The  calm,  submissive  silence, 
The  hushed,  deep,  waiting  silence, 
Of  the  Quaker  meeting-house. 


2/6  LAVINIA    P.   YEATMAN. 

NEW-YEAR'S  EVE. 

"  Watch  ye  unto  prayer." 

[LL  down  the  dark  blue  western  slope  the  linger 
ing  sunflame  dies, 
And  Venus  breaks  in  beauty  on  her  star-path 

through  the  skies, 
And  the  surging  wind-voice  whispers  through  the  pines, 

aweary,  slow, 

Waking  a  deep,  deep  aftertone  from  the  heart  of  long 
ago. 

The  long  ago — how  strangely  sad  its  memories  crowd 

and  come, 
As  soft  through  onward  distance  falls  the  light  which 

signals  home, 
And  to-night  each  warm  remembrance,  calling  back  the 

roll  of  time, 
Folds,  with  closer  fold,  as  nearer  draws  the  old  year's 

parting  chime ! 

We  may  not  read  the  future,  but  the  past  is  all  our 

own, 
As  we  trace  its  stormy  reaches  by  the  light  of  love 

alone ; 
For  the  Master  only  slumbered  when  the  waves  rolled 

wild  of  will, 
And  the  fishers'  barque  moored  smoothly  'neath  His 

low  rebuke,— "Be  still." 

So  with  his  changeless  record,  and  his  balanced  ledger 

filled, 
The  phantom  of  the  old  year  stands  beside  me  stolid, 

stilled, 
And  many  an  unmarked  chapter,  where  life's  noblest 

lessons  lay, 
Unprinted  by  my  hand  and  thought,  are  lost  forever 

and  aye. 

To  us  the  chance  is  given,  and  its  first  light  is  the 

best, — 
The  father  loves  acceptance  of  the  spirit-word  confest ; 


LAV1NIA   P.  YEATMAN. 


And  the  dear  Lord  smiles  in  blessing,  though  our  lines 

may  weakly  fall, 
As  the  sunshine  of  His  presence  fills,  and  guides  and 

governs  all. 

Soft  the  sobbing  night-wind  passes,  and  the  pine-trees 

stir  and  sway, 
With  a  rustle  and  a  startle,   ere  the  air-wave  glides 

away, 
Throwing  back  a   mild  rebuking,  stealing  o'er  each 

vain  regret,  — 
"  Life  is  full  of  noblest  meaning,  and  its  path  is  on 

ward  yet, 
And  a  grand  retrieving  power  within  its  unfilled  leaves 

is  set." 

All  enwrapt  in  icy  sparkle,  glides  the  old  year  from  our 

sight, 
Down  through  clouds  of  fleecy  beauty  drops  the  moon's 

exultant  light, 
While  I  breathe  the  deep  sad  prayer,  —  "  Fill,  O  Christ  ! 

the  New  Year's  page, 
And    build    in    all    these    hearts  of   ours    anew    thy 

heritage." 


EXTRACT  FROM    "EDITH." 

Published  by  permission  of  the  J.  B.  Lippincott  Company. 

AKES  there  a  chord  of  joy  that  we  miss 
From  the  perfect  whole  of  a  June  day's  bliss, 
When  the  heart  hath  garnered  no  undue  care  ? 
Oh  !  to  lie  in  the  outer  air, 
On  the  velvety  green  by  the  new-mown  hay, 
Watching  the  cloud-folds  gathering  play, 
With  the  reapers  rattle  just  faint  away, 

Alone,  in  the  luscious  month  of  June : 
When  the  dark  leaves  sway  in  an  anthem  alway, 

While  the  shadows  lie  hushed  on  the  noon, 
And  the  old  oak  tells  to  the  poplar  bells 

What  the  whispered  spells  intune, 
While  the  luminous  air  grows  rich  and  rare 
With  the  weight  of  mystic  rune. 
24 


278  LAVINIA    P.   YEATMAN. 

Oh,  the  tale  they  whisper  hath  notes  as  strange 
As  the  wings  of  Perii,  who  mount,  and  range 

Away  to  the  dim  empyrean  blue. 
The  honey-bee  lurks  on  the  wild-rose  stem, 

While  the  purpling  shadows  fall  dimly  through  ; 
She  listens,  and  bears  the  story  from  them, 
While  the  leaf  and  the  tree  are  telling  to  me 
The  song  of  the  beautiful  mystery. 


OTHER  POETS. 


IN  addition  to  those  persons  whose  poems  appear  in 
the  preceding  pages,  many  of  those  mentioned  in  this 
chapter,  all  of  whom  have  written  in  measure  and  in 
rhyme,  are  no  doubt  justly  entitled  to  places  in  the 
body  of  this  book.  But  for  many  imperative  reasons, 
— among  which  may  be  mentioned  the  impossibility  in 
some  instances  of  obtaining  any  of  their  writings,  and 
in  others  the  failure  to  get  those  which  were  afterwards 
obtained  with  great  difficulty  at  the  proper  time, — it 
was  impossible  to  give  their  poems  the  positions  which 
under  other  circumstances  they  would  have  occupied. 
For  these  reasons,  and  in  order  that  the  contents  of 
the  book  might  conform  as  nearly  as  it  was  practicable 
with  the  title,  this  chapter  has  been  added. 

James  L.  Futhey,  brother  of  the  late  Judge  Futhey, 
wrote  poems  in  early  life. 

Mrs.  S.  A.  Taylor,  a  native  of  New  Castle  County, 
Del.,  but  for  some  years  a  resident  of  Southern  Chester 
County,  has  published  many  fine  obituary  poems. 

Annie  J.  Christman,  of  Pughtown,  wrote  poems  in 
early  life. 

Mrs.  E.  W.  Cutler,  of  Unionville,  has  written 
some  fine  poems. 

J.  O.  K.  Robarts,  editor  of  the  Phccnixville  Mes 
senger,  is  the  author  of  an  ode  that  was  sung  at  the 
Valley  Forge  Centennial  celebration,  June  19,  1878. 

Rev.  Samuel  Pancoast,  a  native  of  Delaware 
County,  Pa.,  but  who  removed  to  Chester  County  in 
early  youth,  and  was  a  fellow-pupil  of  Bayard  Taylor 
at  Unionville  Academy,  and  who  in  1844  became  a 

279 


28O  OTHER   POETS. 


member  of  the  Philadelphia  Methodist  Episcopal  Con 
ference,  and  subsequently,  in  1888,  was  pastor  of  the 
Methodist  Episcopal  Church  of  Avondale,  is  the  author 
of  many  fine  poems,  which  he  contemplates  publishing 
in  book  form.  Mr.  Pancoast  went  to  Iowa  in  1857, 
and  remained  in  that  State  for  ten  years ;  subsequently 
he  made  a  tour  through  the  principal  European  coun 
tries,  and  at  present  resides  in  Chester,  Pa. 

Mr.  Pancoast  is  the  author  of  the  following  poem, 
entitled  "  Decoration  Poem,"  which  he  read  at  Union 
Hill  Cemetery,  Kennet  Square,  May  30,  1887. 


DECORATION  POEM. 

E'VE  met  within  the  church-yard,  boys, 

Where  sleep  our  honored  dead, 
With  hands  all  filled  with  flowers  of  spring, 
Upon  their  graves  to  spread. 

The  solemn  past  comes  back  to-day, 

And  scenes  of  wild  alarms, 
Which  broke  in  echoes  long  and  loud, — 

To  arms  !     To  arms  !     To  arms  ! 

It  broke  from  every  mountain-side, 

It  swept  o'er  every  plain, 
And  reached  the  ears  of  every  man 

Throughout  this  vast  domain. 

At  Sumpter's  dark  and  frowning  height, 

'Mid  cannon's  fearful  roar, 
The  pent-up  fires  of  war  broke  forth, 

And  flashed  from  shore  to  shore. 

A  million  men  the  echo  heard, 

And  answered  to  the  call ; 
They  shook  their  starry  banners  out, 

And  hung  them  on  the  wall. 


OTHER   POETS.  28 1 


The  glowing  camp-fires  brightly  shone 

Upon  a  thousand  hills, 
And  snowy  tents  were  pitched  beside 

A  thousand  rippling  rills. 

And  freedom's  music  rilled  the  air, 

Amid  the  circling  camps, 
And  freedom  cheered  their  hearts,  amid 

The  evening  dews  and  damps. 

And  every  man,  with  courage  brave, 

Marched  to  the  field  of  strife, 
And  pledged  his  honor  and  his  blood 

To  save  the  nation's  life. 

They  came  from  Maine's  dark  wooded  hills, 

Upon  Atlantic's  shores, 
And  where  the  Rocky  Mountains'  slopes 

Poured  forth  their  golden  stores. 

They  came  from  silvery  mountain's  lake, 

And  from  the  prairies  wide, 
And  joined  themselves  in  solid  ranks, 

Like  brothers  side  by  side. 

The  woodman  dropped  his  axe  and  left 

His  timber  still  unhewn ; 
The  ploughman  left  his  furrowed  field 

While  yet  with  seeds  unstrewn. 

These  men,  unused  to  war,  began 

The  use  of  arms  to  learn, 
And  how  to  form  the  battle-line 

And  victories  to  earn. 

From  these  recruits  the  veterans  came 

Who  never  knew  defeat ; 
The  bugle  blasts  to  which  they  marched 

Did  never  sound  retreat. 

With  Meade  they  fought  at  Gettysburg, 

And  gained  his  victory; 
They  bore  the  flag  in  Sherman's  march 

Through  Georgia  to  the  sea. 

24* 


282  OTHER    POETS. 


And  through  the  dark,  dark  Wilderness 
They  pressed  from  day  to  day, 

And  to  their  great  commander's  voice 
They  listened  to  obey. 

They  marched  with  true  and  steady  steps 

To  danger  and  to  death, 
And  true  to  country  and  to  God, 

They  yielded  up  their  breath. 

And  still  their  great  commander  pressed 

His  strong  and  fearful  foe, 
Until  he  made  his  latest  stand 

By  James's  sluggish  flow. 

Then,  unperceived,  an  angel  bright 

Did  hover  o'er  that  scene, 
And  breathed  upon  the  foeman's  hearts 

And  made  them  all  serene. 

And  while  they  stood  a  shout  was  heard, 

It  rolled  o'er  all  the  field  ; 
Soon,  soon  it  broke  from  ev'ry  lip, — 

They  yield  !     They  yield  !     They  yield  ! 

Then  merry  music  filled  the  air, 

Because  the  war  was  o'er,  , 

And  every  boy  in  blue  who  lived 
Could  reach  his  home  once  more. 

O'er  all  the  land  our  grand  old  flag 

In  triumph  once  more  waved, 
For  treason  crushed  and  dying  lay, 

The  nation's  life  was  saved. 

The  soldiers  turned  from  sunny  South, 

Their  arms  to  put  in  stores, 
And  for  their  feet  wide  open  flew 

Ten  thousand  open  doors. 

A  brighter  day  then  dawned  upon 

The  land  from  sea  to  sea, 
For  by  the  war  four  million  slaves 

Were  made  forever  free. 


OTHER    POETS.  283 


No  bondman  raised  his  shackled  arm 

Upon  Columbia's  soil, 
No  fettered  slave  was  forced  to  serve 

In  unrequited  toil. 

The  wondrous  truth  which  always  did 

Our  bill  of  rights  adorn, — 
That  every  man  of  every  clime 

Was  free  and  equal  born, — 

Should  be  the  heritage  of  all 
Who  make  this  land  their  home, 

And  our  broad  flag  should  shelter  him 
Wherever  he  should  roam. 

The  men  who  bought  with  their  own  blood 
Their  rights,  to  which  we  cling, 

Are  in  these  graves  on  which  we  strew 
The  early  flowers  of  spring. 

We've  decked  their  graves  a  score  of  years, 

With  hands  of  love  and  care ; 
We  prize  the  good  by  them  secured, 

And  in  their  blessings  share. 

And  soon  these  men  who  gather  here 

Will  all  have  passed  away, 
Just  as  their  comrades  passed  before, 

Who  in  the  church-yard  lay. 

And  the  Grand  Army  will  be  gone 

Who  did  the  Nation  save, 
And  by  the  stern  decree  of  death 

Shall  find  an  honored  grave. 

But  your  brave  deeds  will  still  live  on 

When  all  your  work  is  done, 
And  through  all  future  years  shall  shine, 

Illustrious  as  the  sun. 

And  generations  yet  to  come 

Will  rise  and  call  you  blest,  . 

And  loving  hands  will  deck  the  tombs 

Where  your  remains  shall  rest. 


284  OTHER   POETS. 


Marshall  Fell,  son  of  Joseph  and  Ann  (Laraborn) 
Fell,  was  born  in  Penn  Township,  not  far  from  West 
Grove,  March  n,  1822.  When  he  was  about  ten  years 
of  age  his  father  removed  to  Ohio,  where  the  subject 
of  this  sketch  continued  to  reside  for  twenty-five  years, 
when  he  returned  to  Chester  County  and  settled  at 
Marshallton.  His  early  life  was  spent  in  farming  and 
shoemaking  in  the  employ  of  his  father.  Except  one 
winter's  tuition  from  his  life-long  friend  and  cousin, 
Thomas  M.  Harvey,  at  his  school  near  Jennerville,  his 
education  was  obtained  at  the  public  schools.  His 
ancestors  for  many  generations  having  been  members 
of  the  Society  of  Friends,  as  was  very  natural,  he  took 
a  lively  interest  in  the  anti-slavery  cause.  One  of  his 
earliest  poems,  written  when  he  was  about  fifteen  years 
of  age,  was  suggested  by  the  death  of  Elijah  P.  Lovejoy, 
the  noted  abolitionist,  who  was  killed  in  a  riot  in  Alton, 
Illinois,  in  1837.  March  12,  1846,  Mr.  Fell  married 
Rebecca  Hirst,  of  Harrisville,  Ohio,  who  died  January 
14,  1851.  Subsequently,  on  February  8,  1855,  he 
married  Hannah  F.  Thomas,  of  Milltown,  Chester 
County.  Mr  Fell's  early  poems  were  written  for  amuse 
ment  ;  but  for  some  years  past  he  has  contributed  a 
number  of  poems,  of  a  moral  and  religious  character, 
to  the  columns  of  the  Chester  County  journals,  and 
The  Friend. 

FUNERAL  FLOWERS. 

N  festive  hall, 
Where  all  are  crowned  with  joyousness  and 

mirth, 

Exquisite  flowers,  which  beautify  the  earth, 
May  please  and  profit  all. 

But  bowed  in  grief 

As  those  who  weep,  and  those  who  mourn  their  loss, 
Their  presence  is  but  pain, — they  find  "the  Cross" 

Their  only  sure  relief. 

Dear  friends  and  kind, 

Whose  minds  are  moved  by  tenderest  sympathies, 
Your  sober  presence  has  more  power  to  ease 

And  soothe  the  troubled  mind 


OTHER   POETS.  285 


Than  lilies  fair, 

.Whose  spotless  beauty  often  decks  the  bier 
Of  those  who  wist  not — wished  not  tarriance  here, 

Amidst  life's  sin  and  care. 

Serious,  solemn  thought 

Pervades  my  mind.     Death  comes  to  all !  Am  I 
Prepared  to  give  account — yield  up  and  die — 

Inherit  blessings  bought  ? 

Christ  died  for  all, 

And  in  his  sovereign  will  and  boundless  care 
He  would  that  all  mankind  might  live,  and  share 

Redemption  from  the  fall. 


John  Townsend,  a  local  poet  of  some  celebrity 
in  his  lifetime,  is  believed  to  have  been  born  in  West- 
town  Township,  about  the  year  1780.  When  about 
thirty  years  of  age  he  married  Hannah  Warner,  and 
settled  in  New  Garden  Township.  In  1844  he  re 
moved  to  Adams  County,  Pa.,  but  after  spending  a  few 
years  there,  returned  to  New  Garden,  and  lived  with  a 
married  daughter  until  the  time  of  his  death,  which 
occurred  in  1864. 

He  was  the  author  of  the  subjoined  poem  on  Patrick 
Henry.  The  William  C.  Preston  mentioned  in  the 
poem  was  a  grand-nephew  of  Patrick  Henry.  He 
was  United  States  Senator  from  South  Carolina,  and 
opposed  the  policy  "of  John  C.  Calhoun  in  regard  to 
nullification,  in  1832,  in  which  year  this  poem  is  be 
lieved  to  have  been  written. 


PATRICK  HENRY. 

CHILD  of  nature  from  his  birth, 
And  cradled  in  the  storm, 

His  country  knew  his  sterling  worth 
In  days  of  dread  alarm. 


286  OTHER    POETS. 


The  first  to  strike  the  spark  of  war, 
The  first  to  break  the  charm, 

And  like  the  son  of  Hamilcar, 
The  first  to  breast  the  storm. 

When  Britain  poured  her  minions  forth 

In  myriads  o'er  the  flood, 
True  as  the  needle  to  the  north, 

Firm  as  a  rock  he  stood. 

His  powerful  eloquence  was  heard 

Upon  the  council  floor, 
Nor  sword,  nor  death,  nor  gibbet  feared, 

But  dared  the  lion's  roar. 

Nor  did  he  falter  on  the  way 

Until  the  work  was  done, — 
The  tyrant  owned  His  powerful  sway, 

And  trembled  on  his  throne. 

His  eloquence  possessed  a  charm 
To  change  the  heart  of  stone, 

All  opposition  to  disarm, 
And  force  of  reason  own. 

Ye  patriots,  where's  that  spirit  now, 
That  braved  the  fire  and  flood  ? 

In  Preston's  eye  a  spark  doth  glow, 
And  for  his  country's  good. 


Roger  H.  Kirk,  who  was  born  in  East  Nottingham 
Township,  March  16,  1815,  and  died  in  Oxford, 
November  4,  1889,  was  for  many  years  of  the  latter 
part  of  his  life  a  contributor  of  poems  to  the  Oxford 
Press. 

William  S.  Brinton,  brother  of  T.  E.  Brinton, 
whose  poems  appear  in  this  book,  was  born  in  Birming 
ham  Township,  in  1835.  He  has  resided  in  Grafton, 
111.,  for  many  years,  and  is  the  author  of  a  number  of 
short  poems. 


OTHER   POETS.  287 


John  Workizer,  son  of  Colonel  Christian  Work- 
izer,  the  ancestor  of  the  Thropp  sisters,  whose  poems 
are  published  in  this  book,  was  one  of  the  earliest 
poets  of  Chester  County,  and  in  the  early  part  of  the 
present  century  was  a  frequent  contributor  to  the 
Philadelphia  journals.  The  following  poem,  written  on 
the  death  of  his  wife,  which  occurred  in  1811,  is  the 
only  specimen  of  his  poetry  extant. 


LINES   ON  THE   DEATH   OF   MY   WIFE. 

HE  look   that   she   gave  when  she    bade  me 

adieu, 
The  sigh  that  escaped  when  she  said  "  We 

must  part," 

Her  hand  as  I  pressed  it,  while  slow  she  withdrew, 
Still  live  in  my  mem'ry,  still  thrill  in  my  heart. 

Her  tear-moistened  handkerchief,  waving  farewell 
From  this  life,  too  cruelly  swift  in  its  course, — 

Her  signs,  as  if  still  she  had  something  to  tell, — 
Each  moment  return,  and  return  with  new  force. 

For  who  could  forget — who  remember,  unmoved, 
Such  charms  as  indifference  idly  might  trace  ? 

Who  that  once  loved  like  me, — like  me  was  beloved 
By  goodness  and  gentleness,  virtue  and  grace. 

She  loved  me  !  how  sweet,  how  transporting  the  theme  ! 

Though  far  and  forever  she's  gone  from  my  sight ; 
It  suns  each  reflection,  it  brightens  each  dream, 

And  even  gives  absence  a  tinge  of  delight. 

Ne'er  to  see  her  again, — how  cruel  the  thought ! 

Time,  distance,  their  power  unavailing  will  prove ; 
Though  heavy  between  us  the  lengthening  chain, 

'Twas  forged  by  esteem  and  is  fastened  by  love. 

Is  she  absent  ?     Oh,  no,  still  her  image  appears ; 

My  soul  dwells  entranced  on  the  vision  divine ; 
Her  voice  of  affectionate  music  I  hear, — 

In  the  accents  of  angels  it  says,  "  I  am  thine." 


288  OTHER    POETS. 


William  E.  Baily,  born  in  West  Goshen  Town 
ship,  September  9,  1850,  published  a  small  volume  of 
poems,  entitled  "  Modern  Rhymes,"  in  1879.  He  is  a 
printer,  and  for  some  years  was  employed  in  the  office 
of  The  Daily  News  in  West  Chester,  but  at  present 
resides  in  Chicago,  111. 

Mrs.  Amanda  Pyle  Michener,  the  mother  of 
Frances  Lavina  Michener,  is  a  writer  of  ability,  and 
has  recently  published  an  interesting  poem  entitled 
"  Naphtali ;  or,  The  Young  Bondman,"  in  a  hand 
some  little  volume  of  a  hundred  and  sixty-one  pages, 
from  the  press  of  J.  B.  Lippincott  Company. 

John  Jackson,  a  member  of  the  family  of  that 
name,  the  founder  of  which  settled  in  London  Grove 
Township  early  in  the  last  century,  was  fond  of  scien 
tific  research,  and  did  much  to  advance  the  intelligence 
of  the  people  of  the  neighborhood  in  which  he  lived, 
by  the  establishment  of  a  library  on  the  Franklin  plan, 
and  by  improving  the  schools  and  promoting  the  love 
for  flowers.  The  following  poem,  entitled  "Morning 
Meditations,"  was  written  in  1787.  Mr.  Jackson  died 
in  1821,  aged  seventy-five  years. 


MORNING  MEDITATIONS. 

MILING  vernal  season  come, 

With  thy  bright  attendant  train  ; 

This,  my  morning  orison, 

Sings  thee  welcome  here  again. 

Come,  ye  southern  gales,  and  blow 
On  the  garden  of  my  heart, 

That  her  spicy  gifts  may  flow 

When  the  north  hath  done  its  part. 

Gentle  fanning  zephyrs  blow  ; 

Bring  your  soft  ethereal  showers, 
Driving  hence  the  frost  and  snow, 

And  refresh  the  plants  and  flowers. 


OTHER    POETS.  289 


Hark,  the  turtle's  voice  I  hear, 
And  her  notes'  mellifluous  power; 

May  her  resting-place  be  near, 
In  this  grove  and  shady  bower. 

So  shall  I,  delighted,  hearken 
To  her  melting,  moving  strain, 

And  assist  her  to  awaken 

Other  songsters  of  the  plain. 

That  with  voices  of  thanksgiving 
We  may  join  in  choral  lays, 

Since  there  is  none  but  the  living 
That  can  give  accepted  praise. 


George  W.  Roberts,  who  was  born  in  East 
Goshen  Township,  October  2,  1833,  and  was  killed  in 
the  battle  of  Stone  River,  Tennessee,  December  31, 
1862,  while  serving  as  brigadier-general  under  Major- 
General  Sheridan,  was  a  poetical  writer  of  much  ability. 
He  was  a  graduate  of  Yale  College,  and  a  member  of 
the  Chester  County  bar. 

Mrs.  Annie  M.  Darlington,  wife  of  Francis  J. 
Darlington,  of  Westtown  Township,  is  the  author  of  a 
number  of  well-written  poems.  She  is  a  native  of 
Cecil  County,  Md.,  where  most  of  her  poems  were 
written  in  her  girlhood.  Some  of  her  poems  may  be 
found  in  the  "  Poets  and  Poetry  of  Cecil  County,  Md." 

Rev.  William  Newton,  D.D.,  pastor  of  the  Re 
formed  Episcopal  Church  of  West  Chester,  is  a  poet 
of  much  ability,  and  the  author  of  a  number  of  books 
upon  religious  and  scientific  subjects,  and  three  vol 
umes  of  poems,  as  follows  :  "  Immortality  and  Other 
Poems;"  "Human  Life;"  "The  Morning  Star  and 
Other  Poems;"  and  "Gleanings  from  a  Busy  Life." 

N          t  25 


290  OTHER    POETS. 


Emma  Alice  Browne,  who  died  at  her  home  in 
Danville,  111.,  February  6,  1890,  in  the  fifty-fourth 
year  of  her  age,  though  a  native  of  Cecil  County,  Md., 
was  the  daughter  of  Rev.  William  A.  Browne,  who  was 
born  in  Elk  Township,  near  where  the  village  of  Lewis- 
ville  now  stands,  in  the  early  part  of  the  present  cen 
tury.  He  died  more  than  half  a  century  ago,  when 
the  subject  of  this  sketch  was  only  about  eight  years  of 
age.  Emma  spent  some  time  in  attending  a  select 
school  in  West  Chester,  in  the  autumn  of.  1854,  and 
while  there  continued  to  write  poetry,  some  of  which 
was  published  in  the  Chester  County  newspapers.  Her 
father,  though  a  man  of  limited  education,  was  fond  of 
poetry,  and  taught  his  little  daughter  to  recite  some 
of  the  popular  lyrics  of  that  day  when  she  was  a  child 
upon  his  knee.  It  is  a  fact  that  she  lisped  in  numbers 
when  only  four  years  of  age,  and  wrote  and  published 
poems  at  ten.  She  was  one  of  the  most  chastely  bril 
liant  and  beautiful  writers  of  her  time,  having  few  equals 
and  no  superiors  as  a  writer  of  fugitive  poems.  George 
D.  Prentice,  the  gifted  editor  of  the  Louisville  Journal, 
who  was  among  the  first  to  recognize  her  ability,  pro 
nounced  her  the  most  brilliant  genius  of  her  time,  for, 
said  he,  "  if  she  can't  find  a  word  to  suit  her  purpose, 
she  makes  one."  She  was  a  cousin  of  the  editor  of 
this  book,  was  twice  married,  and  leaves  a  husband  and 
three  sons,  one  of  whom  seems  to  have  inherited  much 
of  her  poetic  ability,  for,  though  only  about  twelve 
years  of  age,  he  has  contributed  creditable  poems  to 
the  New  York  Ledger,  to  which  his  mother  was  a  reg 
ular  contributor  for  thirty-two  years.  Her  poems  that 
were  published  in  the  Ledger  were  copyrighted,  and 
will  shortly  be  published  in  book  form.  Her  life,  ex 
cept  about  three  years  of  her  early  girlhood  and  ten 
years  of  her  married  life,  which  were  spent  in  her 
native  State,  was  passed  in  Missouri  and  Illinois.  She 
died  in  the  faith  of  the  Catholic  Church.  Owing  to 
the  fact  that  most  of  this  chapter  was  in  type  when  the 
tidings  of  her  death  reached  us,  we  have  been  unable 
to  obtain  any  of  the  poems  she  wrote  in  Chester  County, 
and  in  lieu  thereof  insert  the  following  poem,  which 
has  been  published  in  many  of  the  leading  literary 
journals  of  this  country. 


OTHER   POETS.  29! 


MEASURING   THE   BABY. 

E  measured  the  riotous  baby 

Against  the  cottage  wall : 
A  lily  grew  at  the  threshold, 

And  the  boy  was  just  so  tall ; 
A  royal  tiger  lily, 

With  spots  of  purple  and  gold, 
And  a  heart  like  a  jewelled  chalice, 

The  fragrant  dews  to  hold. 

Without  the  blue  birds  whistled, 

High  up  in  the  old  roof  trees ; 
And  to  and  fro  at  the  window 

The  red  rose  rocked  her  bees; 
And  the  pink  fists  of  the  baby 

Were  never  a  moment  still, 
Snatching  at  shine  and  shadow, 

That  danced  on  the  latticed  sill ! 

His  eyes  were  wide  as  blue-bells, 

His  mouth  like  a  flower  unblown, 
Two  little  bare  feet,  like  funny  white  mice, 

Peept  out  from  his  snowy  gown  ; 
And  we  thought,  with  a  thrill  of  rapture, 

That  yet  had  a  touch  of  pain — 
When  June  rolls  around  with  her  roses 

We'll  measure  the  boy  again  ! 

Ah  me  !  In  a  darkened  chamber, 

With  the  sunshine  shut  away, 
Thro'  tears  that  fell  like  a  bitter  rain, 

We  measured  the  boy  to-day  ! 
And  the  little  bare  feet,  that  were  dimpled, 

And  sweet  as  a  budding  rose, 
Lay  side  by  side  together, 

In  the  hush  of  a  long  repose  ! 

Up  from  the  dainty  pillow, 

White  as  the  rising  dawn, 
The  fair  little  face  lay  smiling 

With  the  light  of  heaven  thereon  ! 


OTHER    POETS. 


And  the  dear  little  hands,  like  rose-leaves 

Dropt  from  a  rose,  lay  still, 
Never  to  snatch  at  the  sunshine 
That  crept  to  the  shrouded  sill ! 

We  measured  the  sleeping  baby 

With  ribbons  white  as  snow, 
For  the  shining  rose-wood  casket 

That  waited  him  below ; 
And  out  of  the  darkened  chamber 

We  crept  with  a  childless,  moan  : 
To  the  height  of  the  sinless  angels 

Our  little  one  had  grown  ! 


For  reasons  beyond  the  control  of  the  editor  or 
printer  the  following  poems,  by  Rev.  Dr.  Matthias 
Sheeleigh,  were  omitted  from  their  proper  place,  and 
for  that  reason  are  inserted  here. 

WHITEMARSH   CENTENNIAL. 

Written  to  commemorate  the  first  centenary  of  Washington's 
occupation  of  Whitemarsh  in  the  autumn  of  1777,  after  the  battle 
of  Germantown,  and  before  retiring  to  winter-quarters  at  Valley 
Forge.  The  spot  lies  thirteen  miles  directly  north  of  the  State 
House,  or  the  centre  of  Philadelphia. 

EW  fairer  scenes  of  vale  and  height 
May  charm  with  loveliness  the  sight, 
Though  far  we  turn  our  wandering  feet, 
Than  here  around  our  homesteads  meet. 

But  not  for  sake  of  scene  alone, 
With  all  its  riches  round  us  strown, 
Prize  we  this  region  of  content, 
Hemmed  in  by  circling  firmament. 

These  fields  and  skies,  these  woods  and  streams, 
More  loudly  speak  than  tongues  of  dreams ; 
Old  sights  and  sounds  now  wake  these  hills, 
Till  every  heart  in  answer  thrills. 


OTHER   POETS.  293 


Whitemarsh,  thy  name,  securely  set 
'Midst  those  which  patriots  ne'er  forget, 
Comes  welcomed  to  these  living  ears 
O'er  all  the  past  one  hundred  years. 

That  name  shall  aye  a  link  remain 
In  the  well-cherished  golden  chain 
Of  date,  and  place,  and  valorous  deed, 
In  times  that  saw  this  Nation  freed. 

Though  now  with  joy  we  greet  the  scene 
Resting  in  peace  these  hills  between, 
A  dark-winged  cloud  once  o'er  it  lay, — 
The  deeper  gloom  ere  break  of  day. 

The  Fort  upon  th"  uplifted  crest 
With  silent  speech  doth  still  attest 
The  perils  that,  with  shades  profound, 
Once  girt  the  cause  of  Freedom  round. 

Familiar  names  about  us  here 
Salute  in  martial  tone  the  ear ; 
Eastward,  Camp  Hill  o'erlooks  the  vale, 
Militia  Hill  to  West  we  hail. 

The  trenches  here  in  circle  bent, 
Thrown  round  the  war-worn  soldier's  tent,- 
Thanks  to  the  sons  of  patriot  sires, — 
Still  mark  where  glowed  the  camping-fires. 

Here  many — who,  to  break  in  twain 
Oppression's  harsh  and  heavy  chain, 
Themselves  to  Freedom's  service  gave — 
Rest  in  the  soldier's  nameless  grave. 

Yonder  the  pilgrim  turns  him  where, 
Close  skirted  by  the  hill-side  there, 
The  ancient  dwelling  boldly  stands 
Whence  issued  Washington's  commands. 

To  South  the  city's  gate  appears, 
Where  Chestnut  Hill  its  brow  uprears, 
Whose  thither  front  witnessed  the  smoke 
That  o'er  contending  armies  broke. 

25* 


294  OTHER    POETS. 


The  lifted  eye  takes  in  at  will 
The  farther  ridge  of  Barren  Hill ; 
There  pious  hands  the  spire  have  set 
Where  guard  was  held  by  Lafayette. 

Northward  across  this  vale  of  rest 
The  shattered  ranks  for  safety  pressed, 
Till,  reassured,  they  turned  the  face, 
The  line  of  marching  to  retrace. 

Then  see  them,  with  unshaken  hopes, 
Returned  from  Skippack's  distant  slopes, 
Here  through  the  lapsing  weeks  to  wait 
What  duty  next  might  indicate. 

No  sinecure  'twas  here  to  lie 
In  scope  of  wary  foeman's  eye, 
Where  it  became  true  wisdom  well 
Each  stealthy  movement  to  repel. 

A  thinned  and  foot-sore  band  at  most, 
That  men  would  scarce  pronounce  a  host, 
Long  beaten,  driven,  here  and  there, 
Still  knew  not  of  the  word  despair. 

What  though  the  anguish  of  defeat 

Was  met  in  each  late  battle-heat, 

At  Brandywine  and  Germantown, 

That  might  faint  hearts  have  broken  down  ? 

What  though  their  chiefest  city  now 
Is  humbled  by  th'  exultant  Howe, 
And  mocking  foes  defile  the  ground 
Where  late  the  bell  woke  freedom's  sound? 

When  hence  those  patriots  pass,  what  though 
Their  feet  leave  blood-stains  on  the  snow ; 
And  suffering  sore,  by  mount  and  gorge, 
Make  winter  drear  at  Valley  Forge  ? 

A  throb  from  Liberty's  great  heart 
Again  shall  men  and  chieftain  start, 
To  wrest  from  foe  at  priceless  cost 
The  boon  afar  accounted  lost. 


OTHER   POETS. 


Long  past  that  day,  and  long  at  rest 
The  hearts  for  them  and  us  distressed, 
We  seat  us  here  in  calm  repose, 
Unharmed,  unawed,  unsought,  by  foes. 

On  ground  once  trod  by  soldier-feet 

In  temples  of  the  Lord  we  meet, 

And  unto  Him  lift  up  our  song 

Who  smiles  on  right  and  frowns  on  wrong. 

May  we  who  'mid  these  scenes  abide 
Hold  fast  the  prize  with  grateful  pride, 
For  which  our  fathers  challenged  fear, 
Nor  held  their  lives  a  price  too  dear. 

Steadfast  as  stand  these  hill-tops  all — 
Each  sending  back  another's  call — 
True  as  the  Wissahickon's  flow, 
Be  all  who  here  shall  come  and  go  ! 

Through  deeds  that  lighten  history's  page, 
Ours  is  a  goodly  heritage, 
That,  long  to  us  in  mercy  spared, 
We'll  pass  to  others  unimpaired. 

With  praiseful  hearts  we  look  on  high, 
To  God,  who  rules  the  earth  and  sky, — 
To  Him  commit,  in  patriot  zeal, 
The  future  of  our  country's  weal. 


CARVING   A   NAME. 

BOY  once  by  a  beech-tree  stood, 
To  carve  his  name  on  the  giant  wood, 
Supposing  it  might  bring  him  fame 
On  the  beechen  bark  to  trace  his  name. 

A  few  years  passed,  and  the  bark  grew  o'er, 
And  almost  hid  the  name  it  bore ; 
Then  a  woodman  came  with  axe  one  day, 
And  hewed  the  old  beech-tree  away. 

The  boy,  meantime,  had  wiser  grown 
Than  to  seek  for  fame  on  wood  or  stone, 
But  fixed  his  name  in  the  deathless  love 
Of  the  good  below,  and  of  God  above. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-100m-9,'52(A3105)444 


-l£SE2£HS"§  LIBRAW  FACILITY 


JBS Johnston  - 


5U8     The  poets  and 
PI+J6  poetry  of  Chester 
County. 


PS 

SU8 
PW6 


A    001344099    5 


